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AST— 1 


VSTE8/0US  DiSCOVE&Y 


YES  ro 


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COSTS  NOTHING'  TO  TRY 


on  A 

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A true  experience  of  J.  H.  WILLIAMS,  Victoria,  B.  C, 


"ONE  BLACK  NIGHT 

I was  returning  to  Van- 
couver, in  my  15-foot 
inboard  motorboat,” 
writes  Mr.  Williams. 
"Suddenly,  a dark  and 
sinister  shape  loomed 
up  directly  ahead. 
There  was  no  time  to 
avoid  it. 


"I  leapt  as  the  boat 
crashed  into  the  object 
—and  found  myself  sit- 
ting on  a crossbeam  of 
a huge  log  boom  that 
was  being  towed  by  a 
distant  tug. N My  boat 
was  gone.  Shivering 
with  cold,  I shouted  in 
vain— the  tug  was  too 
far  away  for  my  voice 
to  reach  it. 


"AFTER  HOURS  OF  TORTURE,  the  night  became  stormy  and  the  tug  skipper 
shortened  his  line.  Again  I shouted— and  this  time  a flashlight  on  the  tug  picked 
me  out  with  its  powerful  beam.  To  the  'Eveready*  fresh  DATED  batteries  in  that 
flashlight  I probably  owe  my  life— and  you  can  ned  , „ 

take  it  from  me,  I am  an  'Eveready*  convert  now.  ^ J 

The  word  " Eveready ” is  a registered  trade~mark  oj  National  Carbon  Co.,  Inc. 


NATIONAL  CARBON  COMPANY,  INC.,  30  EAST  42nd  STREET,  NEW  YORK,  N.  Y. 


Li/it  oj  t ' nion'  Carbicit  Mm  and  .Carbon  Corporal  ion 


ASTOUNDING 

SCIENCE-FICTION 

TITLE  REGISTERED  U.  S.  PATENT  OFFICE 

CONTENTS  AUGUST,  1940  VOL.  XXV  NO.  6 

The  editorial  contents  of  this  magazine  have  not  been  published  before,  are 
protected  bycopyrightand  cannot  be  reprinted  withoutthe  publisher's  permission. 

NOVELETTES 

THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN  ....  Lester  del  Rey  . . . 9 

Two  strong-willed  men  agreed  they  had  to  reach  the  stars 
— but  there  wasn’t  another  thing  they  would  agree  on! 

VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST A.  E.  van  Vogt  ...  5® 

The  beings  of  a different  Universe  sent  through 
a messenger,  a highly  adaptable  sort  of  robot — 

SHORT  STORIES 

RENDEZVOUS John  Berryman  ...  37 

A properly  conducted  search  will  find  anybody  any- 
where— provided  he  isn’t  looking  for  you,  too! 

DONE  WSTHOUT  EAGLES  ....  Philip  St.  John  ...  70 

A freak  mutation  with  four  arms  and  claims  to  be  a superman, 
and  a hero  who  didn’t  know  when  to  retire  are  bad  for  discipline. 

CLERICAL  ERROR Clifford  D.  Simak  . . 94 

The  shipping  clerk  made  a slight  error — but  the  slight- 
est error  means  death  when  you’re  fighting  Jupiter! 

MOON  OF  EXILE  .......  Horry  Walton  . . .115 

Anybody  was  welcome  on  Callisto — and  nobody  ever 
left  it.  It  wasn’t  a prison — but  it  was  escape-proof! 

ARTICLES 

THE  SCIENCE  OF  WHITHERING  . . L.  Sprague  de  Camp  . S3 

Conclusion.  Civilization  must  be  going  somewhere,  but 
those  who  wonder  whither  don’t  seem  to  agree  very  well — 

SHHHHH!  DON'T  MENTION  IT  . . Arthur  McCann  ...  104 

Atomic  power  mustn’t  be  discussed  too  loudly.  Too  many  people 
-tend  to  think  “soon”  means  “next  week” — and  get  rooked  for  it! 

SERIAL 

CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA  Norman  L.  Knight  . .126 

Conclusion.  A Utopian  world  stirred  by  a great  question — 
and  a madman  tangles  the  strings  to  make  a crisis  worse. 

READERS'  DEPARTMENTS 

THE  EDITOR’S  PAGE 6 

IN  TIMES  TO  COME . 49 

Department  of  Prophecy  and  Future  Issues. 

ANALYTICAL  LABORATORY 49 

BRASS  TACKS  AND  SCIENCE  DISCUSSIONS  . . 155 

The  Open  House  of  Controversy. 

Illustrations  by  Cartier,  R.  I sip,  Koll,  Kramer  and  Schneeman 
COVER  BY  ROGERS 

All  stories  in  this  magazine  are  fiction.  No  actual  persons  are  designated 
either  by  name  or  character.  Any  similarity  is  coincidental. 

Monthly  publication  issued  by  Street  & Smith  Publications,  Incorporated.  79  Seventh  Avenue,  New 
York  City.  Allen  L.  Grammer,  President;  Ormond  V.  Gould,  Vice  President;  Henry  W.  Ralston, 
Vice  President;  Gerald  H.  Smith,  Treasurer  and  Seerotary.  Copyright,  1940,  in  U.  S.  A.  and  Groat 
Britain  by  Street  & Smith  Publications,  Inc.  Reentered  as  Second-class  Matter,  February  7,  1938, 
at  the  Post  Office  at  New  York,  under  Act  of  Congress  of  March  3,  1879.  Subscription*  to  Canada 
and  Countries  in  Pan  American  Union,  $2.25  per  year;  elsewhere,  $2.75  per  year.  Wa  cannot  aooopt 
responsibility  for  unsolicited  manuscripts  or  artwork.  Any  material  submitted  must  include  return  postage. 

Printed  in  the  U.  S.  A. 

STREET  & SMITH  PUBLICATIONS,  INC.  • 79  7th  AVE.,  NEW  YORK 


WHITED:  II CM 

Such  a time  viewer  would  be  darned  handy  in  many  ways,  but  at  the 
moment — and  this  moment  in  which  I am  writing  is  so  long  gone  as  to 
be  difficult  to  recall  from  its  point  of  history  by  the  time  this  is  read — one 
would  be  useful  in  devising  this  page.  Nevertheless,  herewith  a neck  is 
stuck  out  in  prophecy;  the  battle  of  robots  is  on. 

The  past  months  have  seen  machines  do  the  fighting  rather  noisily  on 
the  parts  of  the  Earth  marked  off  as  battle  lines.  They’ve  seen,  thereby, 
cne  of  science-fiction’s  less  happy  themes  made  reality.  Hitler  & Co.  must 
be  science-fiction  addicts.  Perhaps  it’s  one  of  science-fiction’s  principal 
faults  that  is  going  to  puncture  the  bad-dream-turned-real. 

Fiction  has  long  loved  the  mighty  fleets  of  machines — ground  or  space 
—in  crashing  battle.  But  it’s  been  remarkably  silent  on  where  these  metal 
mammoths  originated.  So  long  as  most  of  the  fighting  is  done  by  machines 
—most  of  the  fighting  is  done  by  machines  behind  the  lines. 

In  all  history,  the  capital  of  war  has  been  manpower.  Income  has 
been  unimportant,  because  it  takes  twenty  years  or  so  to  replace  a soldier-. 
This  time  machines  are  the  capital,  and  there  can  be  income.  There  will, 
in  science-fiction’s  wars,  be  a period  of  initial  shock  wherein  the  savings — 
the  already-produced  machines — are  squandered.  If  final  decision  cannot 
be  reached  in  that  brief  initial  period,  it  settles  down  to  a war  of  income. 
Then  the  robots  behind  the  lines  do  the  fighting,  with  their  hell-breathing 
children  the  pawns  of  little  moment. 

The  steel  mill,  the  turning  lathe,  the  stamping  press  and  tool-and-die 
industries,  curiously  inoffensive-seeming  warriors,  decide  the  battle. 

Science-fiction’s  never  considered  them;  there’s  so  little  drama  in  the 
steady  hum-click-buzz-hum  of  an  automatic  lathe.  And  the  big  lathe  turn- 
ing out  a gasoline  cracking  still,  that  Sunday  drivers  may  jam  the  roads 
the  tighter,  looks  so  much  like  the  same  giant  lathe  occupied  in  blanking 
out  a 16-inch  rifle  for  a 45,000-ton  battle  wagon. 

There’s  a bit  more  color  in  steel  furnaces — but  even  they’re  ignored  in 
favor  of  the  splash  and  glory  of  a battle  in  space. 

Science-fiction’s  rather  skipped  over  lightly  on  that  angle.  But  on 
Earth  or  in  space,  the  lathe,  the  rolling  mill,  and  the  foundry  flask  or  their 
descendants,  will  decide  the  question,  unless  the  first  shock  can  be  complete. 

Gasoline  isn’t  as  dramatic  as  nitroglycerin — but  it  does  more  work. 

The  Editor. 


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NANTICOKE,  PA.— MARY  HOWELLS.  NINE- 
TEEN-YEAR-OLD BLUES  SINGER,  WINS 
TWO  WEEKS'  ENGAGEMENT  AT  MICHAEL 
TODD'S  DANCING  CAMPUS  AT  WORLD'S 
FAIR. 


TODAY,  Mary  Howells  is  earning  $50.  a week  in  one 
of  the  world's  greatest  night  clubs  at  the  World's 
Fair.  Yesterday  she  had  never  sung  before  an 
audience  except  in  a high-school  musical  at  Nanticoke. 


Mary  won  this  chance  for  fame  over  many  other  ama- 
teurs in  the  audition  at  Michael  Todd's  Hall  of  Music. 
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c 


PIC"  AMATEUR 
O N T E S T 


9 


Y Y'Y 


10 


THE  STARS  LOOK  OOHIA 

By  Lester  del  Bey 

A tale  of  two  men  agreeing  on  one  thing — space 
travel — and  disagreeing  on  practically  anything  else! 

Illustrated  by  W.  A.  Koll 


Emu  Morse  came  down  the  steps 
slowly  without  looking  back,  and  his 
long  fingers  brushed  through  the 
gray  hair  that  had  been  brown  when 
he  first  entered  the  building.  Four 
year  is  a long  time  to  wait  when  a 
man  has  work  to  do  and  the  stars 
look  down  every  night  reminding 
him  of  his  dreams.  There  were  new 
lines  in  his  face  and  little  wrinkles 
had  etched  themselves  around  his 
dark  eyes.  But  even  four  years  had 
been  too  few  to  change  his  erect  car- 
riage or  press  down  his  wide  shoul- 
ders. At  sixty,  he  could  still  move 
with  the  lithe  grace  of  a boy. 

The  heavy  gate  opened  as  he 
neared  it  and  he  stepped  out  with  a 
slow,  even  pace.  He  passed  the  big 
three-wheeled  car  parked  there,  then 
stopped  and  breathed  deeply,  let- 
ting his  eyes  roam  over  the  green 
woods  and  plowed  fields  and  take  in 
the  blue  sweep  of  the  horizon.  Only 
the  old  can  draw  the  full  sweetness 
from  freedom,  though  the  young 
may  cry  loudest  for  it.  The  first 
heady  taste  of  it  over,  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  prison  and  headed  down 
the  road. 

There  was  a bugling  from  the  car 
behind  him,  but  he  was  barely  con- 
scious of  it;  it  was  only  when  it 
drove  up  beside  him  and  stopped 
that  he  noticed.  A heavily-built  man 
stuck  out  a face  shaped  like  a bull- 
dog’s and  yelled. 

“Hey,  Erin!  Don’t  tell  me  you’re 
blind  as  well  as  crazy  ' 


Morse  swung  his  head  and  a mo- 
mentary flash  of  surprise  and  annoy- 
ance crossed  his  face  before  lie 
stepped  over  to  the  car.  “You  would 
be  here,  of  course,  Stewart.” 

“Sure.  I knew  your  men  wouldn’t. 
Hop  in  and  I’ll  ride  you  over  to 
Hampton.”  At  Erin’s  hesitation,  he 
gestured  impatiently.  “I’m  not  go- 
ing to  kidnap  you,  if  that’s  what 
you  think.  Federal  laws  still  mean 
something  to  me,  you  know.” 

“I  wouldn’t  know.”  Erin  climbed 
in  and  the  motor  behind  purred 
softly,  its  sound  indicating  a full 
atomic  generator  instead  of  the  usual 
steam  plant.  “1  suppose  the  warden 
kept  you  well  informed  of  my  ac- 
tions.” 

The  other  chuckled.  “He  did; 
money  has  its  uses  when  you  know 
where  to  put  it.  I found  out  you 
weren’t  letting  your  men  visit  or 
write  to  you,  and  that’s  about  all. 
Afraid  I’d  find  out  what  was  in  the 
letter?” 

“Precisely.  And  the  boys  could 
use  the  time  better  for  v'ork  than 
useless  visits  to  me.  Thanks,  I have 
tobacco.”  But  at  Stewart’s  impa- 
tient gesture  he  put  the  “makings” 
back  and  accepted  a cigarette.  “It 
isn’t  poisoned,  I suppose?” 

“Nor  loaded.” 

Erin  let  a half  smile  run  over  his 
lips  and  relaxed  on  the  seat,  watch- 
ing the  road  flash  by  and  letting  his 
mind  run  over  other  times  with 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


11 


Stewart.  Probably  the  other  was 
doing  the  same,  since  the  silence  was 
mutual.  They  had  all  too  many 
common  memories.  Forty  years  of 
them,  from  the  time  they  had  first 
met  at  the  Institute  as  roommates, 
both  filled  with  a hunger  for  knowl- 
edge that  would  let  them  cross  space 
to  other,  worlds. 

Erin,  from  a family  that  traced 
itself  back  almost  to  Adam,  and  with 
a fortune  equally  old,  had  placed  his 
faith  in  the  newly  commercialized 
atomic  power.  Gregory  Stewart, 
who  came  from  the  wrong  side  of 
the  tracks,  where  a full  meal  was 
a luxury,  was  more  conservative; 
new  and  better  explosives  were  his 
specialty.  The  fact  that  they  were 
both  aiming  at  the  same  goal  made 
little  difference  in  their  arguments. 
Though  they  stuck  together  from 
stubbornness,  black  eyes  flourished. 

Then,  to  complicate  matters  fur- 
ther, Mara  Devlin  entered  their  lives 
to  choose  Erin  after  two  years  of 
indecision  and  to  die  while  giving 
birth  to  his  son.  Erin  took  the  boy 
and  a few  workers  out  to  a small 
island  off  the  coast  and  began  soak- 
ing his  fortune  into  workshops  where 
he  could  train  men  in  rocketry  and 
gain  some  protection  from  Stewart’s 
thugs. 

Gregory  Stewart  had  prospered 
with  his  explosives  during  the  war 
of  1958,  and  was  piling  up  fortune 
on  fortune.  Little  by  little,  the  key 
industries  of  the  country  were  com- 
ing under  his  control,  along  with 
the  toughest  gangs  of  gunmen.  When 
he  could,  he  bought  an  island  lying- 
off  the  coast,  a few  miles  from  Erin’s, 
stocked  it  with  the  best  brains . he 
could  buy,  and  began  his  own  re- 
search. The  old  feud  settled  down 
to  a dull  but  constant  series  of  de- 
feats and  partial  victories  that 
gained  nothing  for  either. 


Erin  came  to  the  crowning  stroke 
of  Stewart’s  offensive,  grimaced  and 
tossed  the  cigarette  away.  “I  forgot 
to  thank  you  for  railroading  me  up 
on  that  five-year  sentence,  Greg,” 
he  said  quietly.  ‘‘I  suppose  you  were 
responsible  for  the  failure  of  the  blast 
that  killed  my  son,  as  well.” 

Stewart  looked  at  him  in  surprise 
which  seemed  genuine.  “The  failure 
was  none  of  my  doing,  Erin.  Any- 
way, you  had  no  business  sending 
the  boy  up  on  the  crazy  experi- 
mental model;  any  fool  should  have 
known  he  couldn’t  handle  it.  Maybe 
my  legal  staff  framed  things  a little, 
but  i*k  was  manslaughter.  I could 
have  wrung  your  neck  when.  I heard 
Mara’s  son  was  dead,  instead  of 
letting  you  off  lightly  with  five  years 
— less  one  for  good  behavior.” 

“I  didn’t  send  him  up.”  Erin’s 
soft  voice  contrasted  oddly  with 
Stewart’s  bellow.  “He  slipped  out 
one  night  on  his  own,  against  my 
orders.  If  the  whole  case  hadn’t 
been  fixed  with  your  money,  I could 
have  proved  that  at  the  trial.  As 
it  was,  I couldn’t  get  a decent  hear- 
ing.” 

“All  right,  then,  I framed  you. 
But  you’ve  hit  back  at  me  without 
trying  to,  though  you  probably  don’t 
know  it  yet.”  He  brushed  Erin’s 
protest  aside  quickly.  “Never  mind, 
you’ll  see  what  I mean  soon  enough. 
I didn’t  meet  you  to  hash  over  past 
grievances.” 

“I  wondered  why  you  came  to  see 
me  out.” 

They  swung  off  the  main  highway 
into  a smaller  road  where  the  speed 
limit  was  only  sixty,  and  went  flash- 
ing past  the  other  cars  headed  for 
Hampton.  Stewart  gunned  the  car 
savagely,  unmindful  of  the  curves. 
“We’re  almost  to  the  wharf,”  he 
pointed  out  needlessly,  “so  I'll  make 
it  short  and  sweet.  I’m  about  fin- 
ished with  plans  for  a rocket  that 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


12 

will  work — a few  more  months 
should  do  the  trick — and  I don’t 
want  competition  now.  In  plain 
words,  drop  it,  Erin,  or  all  rules  are 
off  between  us.” 

“Haven’t  they  been?”  Erin  asked. 

“Only  partly.  Forget  your  crazy 
ion-blast  idea,  and  I’ll  reserve  a 
berth  for  you  on  my  ship;  keep  on 
bucking  me,  and  I’ll  ruin  you. 
Well?” 

“No,  Greg.” 

Stewart  grunted  and  shrugged.  “I 
was  afraid  you’d  be  a fool.  We’ve 
always  wanted  the  same  things,  and 
you’ve  either  had  them  to  begin  with 
or  gotten  them  from  under  mj  nose. 
But  this  time  it’s  not  going  to  be 
that  way.  I’m  declaring  war.  And 
for  your  information,  my  patents  go 
through  in  a few  days,  so  you’ll  have 
to  figure  on  getting  along  without 
that  steering  assembly  you  worked 
out.” 

Erin  gave  no  sign  he  had  heard 
as  the  car  came  to  a stop  at  the  'Small 
wharf.  “Thanks  for  picking  me  up,” 
he  said  with  grave  courtesy,  Stewart 
answered  with  a curt  nod  and  swung 
the  car  around  on  its  front  wheels. 
Erin  turned  to  a boy  whose  boat  was 
tied  up  nearby.  “How  much  to  ferry 
me  out  to  Kroll  Island?” 

“Two  bucks.”  The  boy  looked 
up,  and  changed  his  smile  quickly. 
“You  one  of  them  crazy  guys  who’s 
been  playing  with  skyrockets?  Five 
bucks  I meant.” 

Erin  grimaced  sligthly  but  held 
out  the  money. 

II. 

There  was  nobody  waiting  to 
greet  him  on  the  island,  nor  had  he 
expected  anyone.  He  fed  the  right 
combination  into  the  alarm  system 
to  keep  it  quiet  and  set  off  up  the 
rough  wooden  walk  toward  the  build- 
ings that  huddled  together  a few 
hundred  yards  from  the  dock.  The 


warehouses,  he  noticed,  needed  a new 
coat  of  paint,  and  the  dock  would 
require  repairs  if  the  tramp  freighter 
was  to  use  it  much  longer. 

There  was  a smell  of  smoke  in  the 
_air,  tangy  and  resinous  at  first,  but 
growing  stronger  as  he  moved  away 
from  the  ocean’s  crisp  counteracting 
odor.  As  he  passed  the  big.  machine 
shop  a stronger  whiff  of  it  reached 
him,  unpleasant  now-.  There  was  a 
thin  wisp  of  smoke  going  up  behind 
it,  the  faint  gray  of  an  almost  ex- 
hausted fire.  The  men  must  be  get- 
ting careless,  burning  their  rubbish 
so  close  to  the  buildings.  He  cut 
around  the  corner  and  stopped. 

The  south  wall  of  the  laboratory 
was  a black  charred  scar,  dripping 
dankly  from  a hose  that  was  play- 
ing on  it.  Where  the  office  building 
had  stood,  gaunt  steel  girders  rose 
from  a pile  of  smoking  ashes  and 
half  burned  boards,  with  two  blis- 
tered filing  cabinets  poking  up  like 
ghosts  at  a wake. 

The  three  men  standing  by  added 
nothing  to  the  cheerfulness  of  the 
scene.  Erin  shivered  slightly  be- 
fore advancing  toward  them.  It  was 
a foreboding  omen  for  his  homecom- 
ing, and  for  a moment  the  primitive 
fears  mastered  him.  The  little  pain 
that  had  been  scratching  at  his  heart 
came  back  again,  stronger  this  time. 

Doug  Wratten  turned  off  the  hose 
and  shook  a small  arm  at  the  sandy- 
haired  young  husky  beside  him.  “All 
right,”  he  yelled  in  a piping  falsetto, 
“matter’s  particular  and  energy’s 
discreet.  But  you  chemists  try  and 
convince  an  atomic  generator  that 
it’s  dealing  with  building-block 
atoms  instead  of  wave-motion.” 

Jimmy  Shaw’s  homely  pleasant 
face  still  studied  the  smoldering 
ashes.  “Roll  wave-motion  into  a 
ball  and  give  it  valence,  redhead,”  he 
suggested.  “Do  that  and  I'll  send 
Stewart  a sample — it  might  make  a 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


13 


better  bomb  than  the  egg  he  laid 
on  us.  How  about  it,  dad?” 

“Maybe.  Anyhow,  you  kids  drop 
the  argument  until  you’re  through 
being  mad  at  Stewart,”  the  foreman 
ordered.  “You’ll  carry  your  tempers 
over  against  each  other.”  Tom 
Shaw  was  even  more  grizzled  and 
stooped  than  Erin  remembered,  and 
his  lanky  frame  seemed  to  have 
grown  thinner. 

“All  right,”  he  decided  in  his 
twangy  down  East  voice.  “I  guess 
it’s  over,  so  we  . . . Hey,  it’s 
Erin!” 

He  caught  at  Jimmy’s  arm  and 
pulled  him  around,  heading  toward 
Erin  with  a loose-jointed  trot.  Doug 
forgot  his  arguments  and  moved  his 
underdone  figure  on  the  double  after 
them,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  thin 
voice.  Erin  found  his  arm  aching 
and  his  ears  ringing  from  then- 
voices. 

He  broke  free  for  a second  and 
smiled.  “All  right,  I got  a year  off, 
I sneaked  in,  I’m  glad  to  be  back, 
and  you’ve  done  a good  job,  I gather. 
Where  are  Hank  and  Dutch?” 
“Over  in  the  machine  shop,  I 
guess.  Haven’t  seen  ’em  since  the 
fire  was  under  control.”  Shaw  jerked 
a long  arm  at  the  remains.  “Had  a 
little  trouble,  you  see.” 

' “I  saw.  Stewart’s  men?” 
“Uh-hmm.  Came  over  in  a plane 
and  dropped  an  incendiary.  Sort 
of  ruined  the  office,  but  no  real  dam- 
age to  the  laboratory.  If  those  filing 
cabinets  are  as  good  as  they  claimed, 
it  didn’t  hurt  our  records.” 

Doug  grinned  beatifically.  “Hurt 
their  plane  more.  Tom  here  had  one 
of  our  test  models  sent  up  for  it, 
and  the  rocket  striking  against  the 
propeller  spoiled  their  plans.”  He 
gestured  out  toward  the  ocean. 
“They’re  drinking  Neptune’s  health 
in  hell  right  now.” 

“Bloodthirsty  little  physicist,  isn’t 


he?”  Jimmy  asked  the  air.  “Hey, 
Kung,  the  boss  is  back.  Better  go 
tell  the  others.” 

The  Chinese  cook  came  hobbling 
up,  jerking  his  bad  leg  over  the 
ground  and  swearing  at  it  as  it  slowed 
him  down.  “Kung,  him  see  boss 
fella  allee  same  time  more  quick 
long  time,”  he  intoned.  “Vely  good, 
him  come  back.  Mebbeso  make  big 
suppee  chop-chop  same  time  night.” 

He  gravely  shook  hands  with  him- 
self before  Erin,  his  smile  saying- 
more  than  the  garbled  English  he 
insisted  on  using,  then  went  hob- 
bling off  toward  the  machine  shop. 
Shaw  turned  to  the  two  young  men. 

“All  right,  you  kids,  get  along. 
I’ve  got  business  with  Erin.”  As 
they  left,  his  face  lengthened.  “I’m 
glad  you’re  back,  boss.  Things 
haven’t  been  looking  any  too  good. 
Stewart’s  getting  more  active.  Oh, 
the  fire  didn’t  do  us  any  permanent 
damage,  but  we’ve  been  having  trou- 
ble getting  our  supplies  freighted  in 
— had  to  buy  an  old  tramp  freighter 
when  Stewart  took  over  the  regular 
one — and  it  looks  like  war  brewing 
all  along  the  line.” 

“I  know  it.  Stewart  brought  me 
back,  and  told  me  he  was  gunning 
for  us.”  Erin  dropped  back  on  a 
rock,  realizing  suddenly  that  he  was 
tired;  and  he’d  have  to  see  a doctor 
about  his  heart — sometime.  “And 
he’s  Stolen  our  steering  unit,  or 
claims  he’s  getting  it  patented,  at 
least.” 

“Hm-m-m.  He  can’t  have  it;  it’s 
the  only  practical  solution  to  the 
controls  system  there  is.  Erin,  we’ll — 
Skip  it,  here  come  Dutch  and 
Hank.” 

But  a sudden  whistle  from  the 
rocket  test  tower  cut  in,  indicating 
a test.  The  structural  engineer  and 
machinist  swung  sharply,  and  Doug 
and  Jimmy  popped  out  of  the  labo- 
ratory, at  a run.  Shaw  grabbed 


14 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


at  Erin.  “Come  on,”  he  urged.  “This 
is  the  biggest  test  yet,  I hope.  Good 
thing  you’re  here  to  see  it.”  Even 
Kung  was  hobbling  toward  the 
tower. 

Erin  followed,  puzzling  over 
who  could  have  set  off  the  whistle; 
he  knew  of  no  one  not  accounted 
for,  yet  a man  had  to  be  in  the 
tower;  evidently  there  was  an  addi- 
tion to  the  force  of  whom  he  knew 
nothing.  They  reached  the  guard 
rail  around  the  tower,  and  the  whis- 
tle tooted  again,  three  times  in  warn- 
ing. 

“Where’s  the  rocket?”  Erin  yelled 
over  the  whistle.  There  was  noth- 
ing on  the  take-off  cradle. 

“Left  two  days  ago;  this  is  the 
return.  Jack’s  been  nursing  it  with- 
out sleep — wouldn’t  let  anyone  else 
have  it,”  Shaw  answered  hurriedly. 
“Only  took  time  off  to  send  another 
up  for  the  bomber.” 

Following  their  eyes,  Erin  finally 
located  a tiny  point  of  light  that 
grew  as  he.  watched.  From  the  point 
in  the  sky  where  it  was,  a thin  shrill- 
ing reached  their  ears.  A few  sec- 
onds later,  he  made  out  the  stubby 
shape  of  a ten-foot  model,  its  tubes 
belching  out  blue  flame  in  a long 
tight  jet.  With  a speed  that  made 
it  difficult  to  follow,  it  shot  over 
their  heads  at  a flat  angle,  heading 
over  the  ocean  while  its  speed 
dropped.  A rolling  turn  pointed  it 
back  over  their  heads,  lower  this 
time,  and  the  ion-blast  could  be  seen 
as  a tight  unwavering  track  behind 
it. 

Then  it  reversed  again  and  came 
over  the  tower,  slowed  almost,  to  a 
stop,  turned  up  to  vertical  with  a 
long  blast  from  its  steering  tubes, 
and  settled  slowly  into  the  space 
between  the  guide  rails.  It  slid  down 
with  a wheeze,  sneezed  faintly,  and 
decided  to  stop  peacefully.  Erin  felt 


a tingle  run  up  his  back  at  his  first 
sight  of  a completely  successful  ra- 
dio-controlled flight. 

The  others  were  yelling  crazily. 
Dutch  Bauer,  the  fat  structural  engi- 
neer, was  dancing  with  Hank  Vle- 
cek,  his  bald  pate  shining  red  with 
excitement.  “It  worked,  it  worked,” 
they  were  chanting. 

Shaw  grunted.  “Luck,”  he  said 
sourly,  but  his  face  belied  the  words. 
“Jack  had  no  business  sending  our 
first  model  with  the  new  helix  on 
such  a flight.  Wonder  the  dam  fool 
didn’t  lose  it  in  space.” 

Erin’s  eyes  were  focused  on  the 
young  man  coming  from  the  pit  of 
the  tower.  There  was  something 
oddly  familiar  about  those  wide 
shoulders  and  the  mane  of  black  hair 
that  hugged  his  head.  As  the  boy 
came  nearer,  the  impression  was 
heightened  by  the  serious  brown 
eyes,  now  red  for  lack  of  sleep,  that 
were  slightly  too  deep  in  the  round 
face. 

The  boy  scanned  the  group  and 
moved  directly  toward  Morse,  a lit- 
tle hesitantly.  “Well,”  he  asked, 
“how  did  you  like  the  test  . . . Mr. 
Morse,  I think?  Notice  how  the 
new  helix  holds  the  jet  steady?” 
Erin  nodded  slowly.  So  this  was 
what  Stewart  had  meant  by  his 
statement  that  he  had  been  hit  twice 
as  hard.  “A  very  good  test,”  he 
acknowledged.  “You  resemble  your 
father,  Jack  Stewart!” 

Jack  shifted  on  his  feet,  then  de- 
cided there  was  no  disapproval  on 
Erin’s  face,  and  grinned.  He  held 
out  a small  package.  “Then  I’ll  give 
this  to  you,  sir.  It’s  a reel  of  ex- 
posed film,  shot  from  the  rocket, 
and  it  should  show  the  other  side — - 
of  the  Moon!” 

III. 

The  secretary  glided  into  the 
richly-appointed  room,  sniffing  at 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


15 


the  pungent  odor  given  oft  by  the 
dirty  old  pipe  in  Stewart’s  mouth. 
“Mr.  Russell’s  here,  sir,”  she  an- 
nounced, wondering  whether  his 
scowl  was  indicative  of  indigestion 
or  directed  at  some  particular  per- 
son. 

“Send  him  in,  then.”  He  bit  at 
the  stem  of  the  pipe  without  looking 
at  her,  and  she  breathed  a sigh  of 
relief.  It  wasn’t  indigestion,  which 
was  the  only  thing  that  made  him 
roar  at  the  office  force;  at  other 
times  he  was  fair  and  just  with 
them,  if  not  given  to  kindliness. 
Looking  at  Russell  as  she  sent  him 
in,  she  guessed  the  object  of  his  an- 
ger- , , 

“Well?”  Stewart  asked  curtly  as 
his  right-hand  man  entered. 

“Now  look,”  Russell  began,  “I  ad- 
mit, I sent  the  plane  over  before 
you  said,  but  was  it  my  fault  if  they 
brought  it  down?  How  was  I to 
know  they  had  a torpedo  they  could 
control  in  the  air?” 

“Not  torpedo,  you  fool;  it  was  a 
rocket.  And  that’s  bad  news,  in  it- 
self,- since  it  means  they’re  making 
progress.  But  we’ll  skip  that.  I 
gave  orders  you  were  to  wait  until 
Morse  refused  my  offer,  and  you 
didn’t.  Furthermore,  I told  you  to 
send  it  over  at  night,  when  they’d 
be  unprepared,  and  drop  it  on  the 
tower  and  laboratory,  not  on  the 
office.  I’m  not  trying  to  burn  peo- 
ple to  death.” 

“But  the  pilot  didn’t  want—” 

“You  mean  you  had  your  own  lit- 
tle ideas.”  He  tossed  the  pipe  into  a 
tray  and  began  picking  at  his  finger- 
nails. “Next  time  I give  you  orders, 
Russell,  I expect  them  to  be  fol- 
lowed. Understand?  You’d  better. 
Now  get  down  to  Washington  and 
see  what  you  can  do  about  rushing 
our  patent  on  the  unified  control; 
Erin  Morse  didn't  look  surprised  or 
bothered  enough  to  suit  me.  He’s 


holding  something,  and  I don’t  want 
it  to  show  up  as  an  ace.  O.  K.,  beat 
it.” 

Russell  looked  up  in  surprise,  and 
made  tracks  toward  the  door.  Either 
the  old  man  was  feeling  unusually 
good,  or  he  was  worried.  That  had 
been  easier  than  he  expected. 

Back  on  Kroll  Island,  Erin  Morse 
settled  back  in  his  chair  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  workshop  that  served  as 
a temporary  office.  “Read  this,”  he 
said,  handing  a dog-eared  magazine 
with  a harshly  colored  cover  to 
Shaw.  “It’s  a copy  of  Interplanetary 
Tales,  one  of  the  two  issues  they 
printed.  It’s  not  well  known,  but 
it’s  still  classed  as  literature.  ^ Page 
108,  where  it’s  marked  in  red.” 

Shaw  looked  at  him  curiously,  and 
reached  for  the  magazine.  He  began 
reading  in  his  overly-precise  manner, 
the  exact  opposite  of  his  usual  slow 
speech.  “ ‘Jerry  threw  the  stick  over 
to  the  right,  and  the  Betsy  veered 
sharply,  jarring  his  teeth.  The  con- 
trols were  the  newest  type,  arranged 
to  be  handled  by  one  stick.  Below 
the  steering  rod  was  a circular  disk, 
and  banked  around  it  was  a circle 
of  pistons  that  varied  the  steering 
jet  blasts  according  to  the  amount 
they  were  depressed.  Moving  the 
stick  caused  the  disk  to  press  against 
those  pistons  which  would  turn  the 
ship  in  that  direction,  slowly  with  a 
little  movement,  sharply  if  it  were 
depressed  the  limit.’  ” 

He  looked  up  at  Erin.  “But  that’s 
a fair  description  of  the  system  we 
use.” 

“Exactly.  Do  you  remember 
whether  the  submarine  was  pat- 
ented?” 

“Why,  Jules  Verne — Hm-m-rn. 
Anything  described  reasonably  accu- 
rately in  literature  can’t  be  given  a 
basic  patent.”  Shaw  thought  it  over 
slowly.  “I  take  it  we  mail  this  to 
the  attorneys  and  get  Stewart’s  claim 


16 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


voided.  So  that’s  why  you  didn’t 
try  for  a patent  on  it?” 

“Naturally.” 

Morse  picked  up  the  records  that 
had  been  saved  from  the  fire  by 
insulated  cabinets,  and  ran  back 
over  the  last  few  year’s  work.  They 
showed  the  usual  huge  expenditures 
and  small  progress.  Rockets  aren’t 
built  on  a shoestring  nor  in  the  back 
yard  during  the  idle  hours  of  a boy 
scientist.  “Total  cost,  five-foot  ex- 
perimental radio-controlled  rocket, 
$13,843.51,”  read  one  item.  From 
another  book  he  found  that  it  had 
crashed  into  the  sea  on  its  first  flight 
and  been  destroyed. 

But  there  were  advances.  The 
third  model  had  succeeded,  though 
the  flickering,  erratic  blast  had  made 
control  difficult.  A new  lightweight 
converter  had  been  tested  success- 
fully, throwing  out  power  from  the 
atoms  with  only  a 00.2%  heat 
loss.  An  ion-release  had  been  dis- 
covered by  General  Electratomic 
Co.  that  afforded  a more  than  ample 
supply  of  ions,  and  Shaw  had  se- 
cured rights  for  its  use.  Toward  the 
last  there  were  outlays  for  some 
new  helix  to  control  the  ion-blast 
on  a tight  line  under  constant  force 
and  a new  alloy  for  the  chamber. 
Those  had  always  been  the  prob- 
lems. 

“Good  work,”  Erin  Morse  nod- 
ded. “This  last  model,  I gather,  is 
the  one  Jack  used  to  reach  the 
Moon.”  Under  it  he  penciled  the 
word  “success”  in  bright  green. 
“The  boys  were  quite  excited  over 
those  pictures,  even  if  they  did  show 
nothing  spectacular.  I’m  glad  he 
sent  it.” 

“So  am  I.  They  needed  encourage- 
ment.” Shaw  kicked  aside  a broken 
bearing,  and  moved  his  chair  back 
against  the  wall.  “I  suppose  you’re 


wondering  why  Jack’s  working  with 
us;  I didn’t  know  how  you’d  take 
it.” 

“I’m  reserving  my  opinion  for  the 
facts.”  It  had  been  a shock,  seeing 
the  boy  there,  but  he  had  covered 
up  as  best  he  could  and  waited  until 
information  was  vouchsafed. 

Shaw  began  awkwardly,  not  sure 
yet  whether  Erin  approved  or  not. 
“Jack  came  here  about  a year  ago 
and — well,  he  simply  told  us  he  was 
looking  for  work.  Had  a blow-up 
with  his  father  over  your  being  sent 
up  for  the  accident,  it  seems.  Any- 
way, they’d  been  quarreling  before 
because  Jack  wanted  to  specialize  in 
atomics,  and  the  old  man  wanted 
him  to  carry  on  with  explosives. 

“So  Jack  left  home,  took  his  de- 
gree with  money  his  mother  had  left 
him,  and  came  here.  He’s  good,  too, 
though  I wouldn’t  tell  him  so.  That 
new  helix  control  is  his  work,  and 
he’s  fixed  up  the  ion-release  so  as 
to  give  optimum  results,  Since  Doug 
and  you  studied  atomics,  they’ve 
made  big  progress,  I reckon,  and  w-e 
needed  someone  with  his  training.” 

“Any  experimental  work  needs 
new  blood,”  Erin  agreed.  “So  Greg 
succeeded  in  teaching  his  son  that 
Mars  was  the  last  frontier,  but  not 
how  to  reach  it.” 

“Seems  that  way.  Anyway,  his 
father’s  kicking  up  a worse  fuss  with 
us  since  he  came.  Somehow,  there’s 
a leak,  and  I can’t  locate  the  source 
— Jack  has  been  watched,  and  he’s 
not  doing  it.  But  Stewart’s  getting 
too  much  information  on  what  we’re 
doing — like  that  control.  He  man- 
aged to  cut  off  freighter  service  and 
choke  our  source  of  supplies  until 
I bought  up  a tramp  and  hired  a 
no-good  captain.” 

“He’ll  hit  harder  when  we  get  his 
patent  application  killed.  By  the 
way,  are  the  plans  for  that  air-re- 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


17 


newer  of  jimmy’s  still  around?” 

Shaw  nodded.  “Yeah,  I guess  so. 
He  never  found  out  what  was  wrong 
with  it,  though,  so  we’ve  been  plan- 
ning on  carrying  oxygen  flasks  with 
us.”  Based  on  the  idea  of  photo- 
synthesis, the  air-renewer  had  been 
designed  to  break  down  the  carbon 
dioxide  waste  product  of  breathing 
by  turning  it  into  sugar  and  free 
oxygen,  as  a plant  does,  and  per- 
mit the  same  air  being  used  over 
and  over. 

“All  it  needs  is  saturated  air 
around  the  catalyst.”  Erin  had 
fished  around  in  the  papers  from 
the  burned  office  until  he  had  the 
plans.  Now  he  spread  them  before 
Shaw  and  indicated  the  changes.  “A 
spray  of  water  here,  and  remove  the 
humidity  afterward.  Took  me  three 
years  up  there,  working  when  I 
could,  to  find  that  fault,  but  it’s 
ready  for  the  patent  attorneys  now. 
Dutch  can  draw  up  the  plans  in  the 
morning.” 

They  stuck  the  papers  and  books 
away  and  passed  out  of  the  build- 
ing into  the  night.  “Stars  look  righ 
good,”  Shaw  observed.  “Mars  seems 
to  be  waiting  until  we  can  get  there.” 

“That  shouldn’t  be  long  now,  with 
the  rocket  blast  finally  under  con- 
trol. What’s  that?”  Erin  pointed 
toward  a sharp  streak  of  light  that 
rose  suddenly  over  the  horizon  and 
arced  up  rapidly.  As  they  watched, 
it  straightened  to  vertical  and  went 
streaking  up  on  greased  wings  until 
it  faded  into  the  heights  beyond 
vision. 

- “Looks  like  Stewart’s  made  a suc- 
cessful model.”  A faint  high  whine 
reached  their  ears  now.  “If  he  has, 
we  will  have  a fight  on  our  hands.” 

Erin  nodded.  “Start  the  boys  on 
the  big  rocket  in  the  morning;  we 
can’t  stop  for  more  experimental 
work  now.” 


IV. 

The  big  electric  hammer  came 
down  with  a monotonous  thud  and 
clank,  jarring  against  the  eardrums 
in  its  endless  hunger  for  new  ma- 
terial to  work  on.  Hank  Vlecek’s 
little  bullet  head  looked  like  a hairy 
billiard  ball  stuck  on  an  ape’s  body 
as  he  bobbed  up  and  down  in  front 
of  it,  feeding  in  sheets  of  cuproberyl 
alloy.  But  the  power  in  the  ma- 
chinist’s arm  seemed  to  match  that 
of  the  motor. 

Dutch  Bauer  looked  up  from  a 
sheet  of  blueprints  and  nodded  ap- 
provingly, then  went  back  to  the 
elaborate  calculations  required  to 
complete  the  design  he  was  working 
on.  The  two  co-operated  perfectly, 
Dutch  creating  structural  pattern 
on  paper,  and  Vlecek  turning  them 
into  solid  metal. 

On  paper,  the  Santa  Maria  was 
shaping  up  handsomely,  though  the 
only  beauty  of  the  ship  itself  was 
to  be  that  given  by  severe  utility. 
Short  and  squat,  with  flaring  blast 
tubes,  she  showed  little  resemblance 
to  the  classic  cigar-hulls  of  a thou- 
sand speculative  artists.  The  one 
great  purpose  was  strength  with  a 
minimum  of  weight,  and  the  locating 
of  the  center  of  gravity  below  the 
thrust  points  of  the  rockets.  When 
completed,  there  would  be  no  danger 
of  her  tipping  her  nose  back  to  Earth 
on  the  take-off. 

Out  on  the  ways  that  had  been 
thrown  up  hastily,  gaunt  girders 
were  shaping  into  position  to  form 
her  skeleton,  and  some  of  the  outer 
sheathing  was  in  position.  The 
stubby  air  fins  that  would  support 
her  in  the  air  until  speed  was  reached 
were  lying  beside  her,  ready  to  be 
attached,  and  a blower  was  already 
shooting  in  insulation  where  her  dou- 
ble hull  was  completed.  Space  it- 
self would  be  insulation  against  heat 


18 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


loss,  but  the  rays  of  the  unfiltered 
sunlight  needed  something  to  check 
them,  or  the  men  inside  the  ship 
would  have  been  boiled  long  before 
Mars  was  reached.  Hsi  Kung  was 
running  the  blower,  babbling  at  it 
in  singsong  Peking  dialect.  At  a 
time  like  this,  they  were  all  common 
laborers  when  there  was  work  to  be 
done. 

Erin  pulled  on  coveralls  and 
reached  for  the  induction  welder, 
while  Jimmy  Shaw  consulted  his 
blueprints.  “Wonder  why  Doug 
hasn’t  shown  up?”  the  boy  asked. 
“He  usually  gets  back  from  the 
mainland  before  morning,  but  it’s 
nine  already.  Hm-m-m.  Looks  like 
Hank’s  machined  enough  hull  plates 
to  keep  us  busy  until  supper.” 

“It  does,  though  where  he  finds 
time  is  a puzzle.  He  must  work  all 
night.  We  need  other  workers,  if 
we’re  to  compete  with  Stewart’s 
force.  Even  counting  Kung,  eight 
men  aren’t  enough  for  this  job.” 
Erin  began  climbing  up  the  wooden 
framing  that  gave  access  to  the  hull, 
wondering  whether  his  heart  would 
bother  him  today.  Sleep  had  been 
slow  coming  the  night  before,  and 
he  was  tired.  This  work  was  too 
heavy  for  an  old  man,  though  he 
hadn’t  thought  of  himself  as  old  be- 
fore. Certainly  he  didn’t  look  old. 

“Wonder  why  Doug  goes  to  town 
once  a week?”  he  asked. 

Jimmy  chuckled.  “Don’t  you 
know?  He’s  found  a girl  friend 
there,  believe  it  or  not.  Some  woman 
has  either  taken  pity  on  him,  or  he’s 
found  his  nerve  at  last.” 

Doug  wasn’t  exactly  the  sort  that 
would  appeal  to  women.  His  short, 
scrawny  figure  was  all  angles,  and 
his  face,  topped  by  its  thin  mop  of 
reddish  hair,  was  vaguely  like  that 
of  an  eagle.  Then,  too,  he  usually 
stuttered  around  women. 

Erin  smiled  faintly.  “It’s  a 


shame,  in  a way,  that  Doug’s  so  shy 
around  girls.  I hope  he  has  better 
luck  with  this  one  than  that  other.” 

“So  do  I,  though  I wouldn’t  tell 
him  so.  He’s  been  as  cocky  as  a 
rooster  since  he  found  this  Helen.” 
Jimmy  settled  into  position  with  a 
grunt  and  moved  a sheet  into  place 
as  it  came  up  on  the  magnetic  grap- 
ple Jack  was  working  below  them. 
“O.  K.,  fire  away.” 

The  welder  was  heavy,  and  the 
heat  that  poured  up  from  the  plates 
sapped  at  Morse’s  strength.  He  was 
conscious  of  sudden  relief  at  noon 
when  a shout  came  up  to  him.  He 
released  the  welder  slowly,  rubbing 
tired  muscles,  and  looked  down  at 
the  weaving  form  of  Doug  Wratten. 
One  of  the  physicist’s  thin  arms  was 
motioning  him  down  erratically. 

“Drunk!”  Jimmy  diagnosed  in 
amazement.  “Didn’t  know  he 
touched  the  stuff.” 

There  was  no  question  of  Doug’s 
state.  His  words  were  thick  and 
muffled  as  Erin  reached  him.  “Go 
’head  ’n’  fire  me,”  he  muttered 
thickly.  “Eire  me,  Erin.  Kick  m’ 
out  ’thout  a good  word.  I’m  a low- 
down  dir’y  dog,  tha’s  what.” 

“For  being  drunk,  Doug?  That 
hardly  justifies  such  extreme  meas- 
ures.” 

“Uh-hu.  Who’s  drunk?  It’s  tha’ 
girl  ...  I foun’  the  leak  we  been 
worr’n  ’bout.” 

Erin  got  an  arm  around  him  and 
began  moving  toward  the  bunk- 
house,  meaning  to  pay  no  attention 
to  his  mumbled  words.  But  the  last 
one  struck  home.  The  leak  of  in- 
formation to  Stewart’s  camp  had 
been  troubling  them  all  for  the  last 
two  months.  “Yes?”  he  encouraged. 

“ ’S  the  girl.  She’s  a spy  for  Stew- 
art.” His  voice  stuck  in  his  throat 
and  he  rumbled  unhappily.  “Use’a 
be  his  sec’tary,  planted  her  on  me. 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


19 


Jus’  usin’  me,  tha’s  all.  Saw  a let- 
ter she  was  writin’  him  when  I was 
waitin’  f’r  her  to  come  down.  Di’nt 
wait  any  more  . . . Jus’  usin’  me; 
tol’  me  she  was  in’rested  in  my  work. 
Tol’  me  she  loved  me.  Foun’  out  all 
I knew  . . . Better  fire  me,  Erin.” 
“I  think  not,  Doug.  It  might 
have  happened  to  any  of  us.  Why 
don’t  you  go  to  sleep?” 

Wratten  rolled  over  in  the  bed 
as  he  was  released,  gagging  sickly, 
and  moaning  to  himself.  “I  love 
Helen  . . . Helen  . . . Damn 
Helen!”  As  Erin  closed  the  door,  his 
voice  came  out,  pleading.  “Don’  tell 
Jimmy;  he’d  laugh.” 

Jimmy  stood  at  the  door  as  Erin 
came  out.  “Poor  devil,”  he  said.  “I 
heard  enough  to  know  what  hap- 
pened. Anything  I can  do  for  him?” 
“Let  him  sleep  it  off.  I’ll  have  a 
talk  with  him  when  he  wakes  up  and 
see  what  I can  do  about  bolstering 
up  his  faith  in  himself.” 

“O.  K.,”  Jimmy  agreed,  “but  it 
was  a dirty,  rotten  trick  of  Stew- 
art’s, using  him  like  that.  . Say, 
dad’s  up  at  the  shack  swearing  at 
something  Stewart’s  done,  and  yell- 
ing for  you.  I just  went  up  there.” 
Erin  grunted,  and  turned  hastily 
toward  the  temporary  office  building 
they  had  erected.  It  was  always 
something,  except  when  it  was  more 
than  one  thing.  First  the  fire,  the 
trouble  with  the  patent,  now  safely 
squelched,  difficulty  in  obtaining 
tools,  and  one  thing  after  another, 
all  meant  to  wear  down  their  morale. 
This  was  probably  one  of  the  master 
strokes  that  seemed  to  happen  al- 
most at  regular  intervals. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  whether 
either  of  them  would  ever  succeeded; 
forty  years  of  rivalry  had  produced 
no  results  except  enough  to  keep 
them  trying.  Now,  when  success  for 
one  of  them  seemed  at  hand,  the  feud 
was  going  on  more  bitterly  than  be- 
AST— 2 


fore,  though  it  was  mostly  one-sided. 
And  war  was  menacing  the  world 
again,  as  it  would  always  threaten  a 
world  where  there  were  no  other  es- 
cape valves  for  men’s  emotions. 
They  needed  a new  frontier,  free  of 
national  barriers,  where  the  head- 
strong could  fight  nature  instead  of 
their  brothers. 

He  had  hoped  to  provide  that 
escape  valve  in  leading  men  to  an- 
other planet,  just  as  Stewart  hoped. 
But  would  either  of  them  succeed? 
Erin  was  sure  of  Stewart’s  ultimate 
failure— explosives  couldn’t  do  the 
trick;  though  he  had  enough  of  a 
sense  of  humor  to  realize  that  Stew- 
art was  saying  the  same  thing 
about  him  and  his  method.  If  only 
there  could  be  peace  until  he  fin- 
ished! 

Shaw  was  waiting  impatiently, 
swearing  coldly  in  a voice  Erin 
hadn’t  heard  since  the  days  when 
Tom  was  tricked  out  of  a discovery 
by  a company  for  which  he  worked 
as  metallurgist,  and  he  joined  the 
men  on  the  island.  “The  mail’s  in,” 
he  said,  breaking  off  his  flow  of  in- 
vectives. “Here’s  a present  from 
Captain  Hitchkins — says  he  can’t 
get  the  cargo  of  berylium  alloy  we 
ordered  made  up.  And  here’s  the 
letter  from  the  Beryl  Co.” 

Erin  picked  up  the  letter,  and  read 
it  slowly.  It  began  with  too  profuse 
apologies,  then  cited  legal  outs. 
“ — will  realize  that  we  are  not  break- 
ing our  contract  by  this  action,  since 
it  contains  a clause  to  the  effect  that 
our  own  needs  shall  come  first.  Mr. 
G.  R.  Stewart,  who  has  controlling 
interest  in  our  stock,  has  requisi- 
tioned our  entire  supply,  and  we 
are  advised  by  our  legal  department 
that  this  contingency  is  covered  by 
the  clause  mentioned.  Therefore, 
we  can  no  longer  furnish  the  alloy 
you  desire.  We  regret—” 


20 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


He  skimmed  the  passage  of  re- 
gret and  polite  lies,  to  center  on  a 
sentence  at  the  end,  which  conveyed 
the  real  message,  and  revealed  the 
source  of  the  letter.  “We  doubt  that 
you  can  secure  berylium  alloy  at 
any  price,  as  we  are  advised  that 
Mr.  Stewart  is  using  all  that  the 
market  can  supply.  If  such  is  not 
the  case,  we  shall,  of  course,  be  glad 
to  extend  our  best  wishes  in  your 
enterprise.” 

“How  about  that?”  he  asked 
Shaw,  pointing  to  the  last  sentence. 
“Have  you  investigated?” 

“Don’t  need  to.  Hitchkins 
showed  more  brains  than  I gave  him 
credit  for.  He  scoured  the  market 
for  us,  on  his  own  initiative,  and 
berylium  just  ain’t.”  Shaw  passed 
over  the  other  letters  that  had  come, 
reverting  to  his  invectives.  “Now 
what  do  we  do?” 

“Without  berylium,  nothing.  We’ll 
have  to  get  it,  some  way.”  But  Erin 
wondered.  Whatever  else  Stewart 
was,  he  was  thorough,  and  his  last 
stroke  had  been  more  than  the  ex- 
pected major  move. 

V. 

The  supper  table  had  turned  into 
a conference  room,  since  news  of  that 
importance  was  impossible  to  keep. 
Even  Doug  Wratten  had  partially 
forgotten  his  own  troubles,  and  was 
watching  Erin.  Kung  stood  unno- 
ticed in  the  doorway,  his  moonface 
picturing  the  general  gloom. 

Dutch  Bauer  finished  his  explana- 
tion and  concluded.  “So,  that  is  it. 
No  berylium,  no  Santa  Maria.  Even 
aluminum  alloys  are  too  heavy  for 
good  design.  Aluminum — bah! 

Hopeless.”  He  shrugged  and  spread 
his  pudgy  hands  to  show  just  how 
hopeless  it  was. 

Jimmy  grunted  and  considered. 
“How  about  magnesium  alloys — 


something  like  magnalium?”  he 
asked,  but  without  much  hope.  “It’s 
even  lighter  than  berylium — 1.74 
density  instead  of  1.8.” 

“Won’t  work.”  Their  eyes  had 
turned  to  Shaw,  who  was  the  metal- 
lurgist, and  his  answer  was  flat.  “Al- 
loys aren’t  high  enough  in  melting 
point,  aren’t  hard  enough,  and  don’t 
have  the  strength  of  the  one  we’ve 
been  using.  When  the  ship  uses  the 
air  for  braking,  or  when  the  sun 
shines  on  it  in  space,  we’ll  need  some- 
thing that  won’t  soften  up  at  ordi- 
nary temperatures,  and  that  means 
berylium.” 

“Then  how  about  the  foreign  mar- 
kets?” Jack  wanted  to  know.  “My 
fa  . . . Mr.  Stewart  can’t  control 
all  of  them.” 

Erin  shook  his  head.  “No  luck. 
They’re  turning  all  they  can  get  into 
bombing  planes  and  air  torpedoes. 
They’re  not  interested  in  idealism.” 

“I  liked  that  new  helix,  too.”  Jack 
tapped  his  fingers  on  the  table,  then 
snapped  them  out  flat.  “Well,  there 
goes  a nice  piece  of  applied  atomics. 
We  should  have  brought  our  own 
berylium  plant,  I guess.” 

“And  have  to  close  down  because 
Stewart  gained  control  of  the  new 
process  for  getting  berylium  out  of 
its  ores.”  Shaw  grunted.  “We’d 
have  had  to  fall  back  on  the  old 
process  of  extracting  it  by  dissolving 
out  in  alkalies.” 

Erin  looked  up  suddenly,  staring 
at  Shaw.  “When  I was  first  start- 
ing,” he  said  thoughtfully,  “I  con- 
sidered buying  one  of  the  old  plants. 
It’s  still  standing,  all  the  machinery 
in  place,  but  it’s  been  closed  down 
by  the  competition  of  the  new  proc- 
ess. The  owner’s  hard  up,  but  he 
can’t  sell  the  place  for  love  or 
money.” 

Jimmy’s  face  dropped  its  scowl 
and  came  forth  with  a fresh  grin, 
even  the  mention  of  a faint  hope  was 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


enough  to  send  up  his  enthusiasm. 
“So  we  buy  it  or  get  him  to  open 
up,  start  using  it,  and  go  ahead  in 
spite  of  Stewart.  How  much  does 
the  old  system  cost,  dad?” 

“About  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a 
ton,  using  a couple  of  tricks  I could 
show  them.  Going  to  try  it,  Erin?” 

Erin  nodded  silently,  but  the 
frown  was  still  on  his  face  as  he  got 
up  and  went  out  to  the  new  office 
where  he  could  use  the  visiphone. 
The  plant  had  a maximum  capacity 
of  four  tons  a week,  which  was 
hardly  adequate,  and  there  were 
other  objections,  but  trying  would 
do  no  harm.  The  frown  was  heavier 
when  he  came  back. 

“Sanders  will  open  up,”  he  re- 
ported, “but  he'll  need  money  to  fix 
the  plant  up.  He  agrees  to  turn  the 
plant  over  to  us,  and  furnish  the 
alloy  at  the  price  Tom  mentioned, 
but  we’ll  have  to  invest  about  sixty 
thousand  in  new  equipment.  Add 
that  to  cost  of  the  metal,  and  it 
runs  to  a rather  steep  figure.” 

“But—” 

“I  know.  I’m  not  kicking  about 
the  money,  or  wouldn’t  be  if  I had 
it  to  spend.”  Erin  hadn’t  meant  to 
tell  them  of  his  own  troubles,  but 
there  was  no  way  to  avoid  it  now. 
“Stewart  left  nothing  to  chance.  The 
stocks  and  investments  I had  began 
to  slip  a month  ago,  and  they  kept 
slipping.  My  brokers  advised  me 
that  they  have  liquidated  every- 
thing, and  I have  about  ten  cents 
on  a dollar  left;  today’s  mail  brought 
their  letter,  along  with  the  other 
news.” 

Jack  swore  hotly.  “Da  . . . 
Stewart  always  could  ruin  a man 
on  the  market.  .Erin,  I’ve  got  a de- 
cent legacy  from  my  mother,  and 
we’re  practically  running  a co-oper- 
ative here  anyhow.  It’s  all  yours.” 

Erin  saw  suddenly  just  what  the 
loss  of  the  boy  had  meant  to  Stew- 


21 

art,  and  the  last  of  the  numbness 
from  his  own  son’s  death  slipped 
away.  His  smile  was  at  sweet  as  a 
woman’s,  but  he  shook  his  head. 
“Did  you  read  your  mail  today?” 
“No,  why?” 

“Because  Stewart  would  know  his 
own  son  well  enough  to  take  precau- 
tions. See  if  I’m  not  right.” 

They  watched  intently  as  the  let- 
ters came  out  of  Jack’s  pocket  and 
were  sorted.  He  selected  one  bulky 
one,  and  ripped  it  open  hastily,  draw- 
ing out  the  paper  where  all  could 
see,  skimming  over  it  until  it  formed 
a complete  picture.  “ ‘It  almost 
seems  that  someone  is  deliberately 
trying  to  ruin  you,’  ” he  read.  “ ‘Our 
best  efforts  have  failed  completely — ’ 
Damn!  There’s  about  enough  left 
to  pay  for  the  new  machinery 
needed,  and  that’s  all.” 

Doug  came  out  of  his  trance.  “I 
won’t  be  needing  my  savings  for  the 
future  now,”  he  said  grimly.  “It’s 
not  much,  but  I’d  appreciate  your 
using  it,  Erin.  And  I don’t  think 
any  of  us  will  want  the  salary  you’ve 
been  paying  us.” 

The  others  nodded.  All  of  them 
had  been  paid  more  than  well,  and 
had  had  no  chance  to  spend  much 
of  their  salary.  Their  contributions 
were  made  as  a matter  of  course, 
and  Erin  totaled  them. 

“It  may  be  enough,”  he  said.  “Of 
course,  we  form  a close  corporation, 
all  profits — if  there  are  any  from  this 
— being  distributed.  I’ll  have  the 
legal  papers  drawn  up.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  enough,  perhaps  not,  but  we 
can  put  it  to  the  test.  Our  big 
trouble  is  that  we  need  new  work- 
ers, men  to  help  Hank  particularly. 
Most  of  the  machining  will  have  to 
be  done  here  on  the  island  now.” 
“Mebbeso  you  fella  catches  man 
fella  plenty.”  Kung  hobbled  for- 
ward to  the  table,  a dirty  leather 


23 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


"It’s  all  right — they  didn’t  get  the  ship!" 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


23 


sack  in  his  hands.  “You  fella  catchee 
li’l  planek  fin’  allee  same  time 
catchee  big  time,  makee  flee.”  His 
pidgin  went  on,  growing  too  thick 
for  them  to  understand. 

Tom  Shaw  held  up  a protesting 
hand.  “Talk  chink,”  he  ordered.  “I 
spent  five  years  there  once,  so  I can 
get  the  lingo  if  you  take  your  time.” 

Kung  threw  him  a surprised  and 
grateful  glance,  and  broke  into  a 
rambling  discourse,  motioning  to- 
ward the  sky,  the  bag  in  his  hand, 
and  counting  on  his  fingers. 

Shaw  turned  back  to  the  others. 

“He  says  he  wants  to  join  up,  put- 
ting in  the  money  he’s  been  saving 
for  his  funeral  when  they  ship  his 
body  back  to  China.  Wants  to  know 
if  his  race  will  be  allowed  on  the 
other  planets  when  we  reach  them?” 

“Tell  him  the  planets  are  big 
enough  for  all  races,  provided  ships 
are  built  to  carry  them.” 

“Vely  good,  boss  fella,  savee 
plenty.”  Kung  lapsed  again  into 
Peking  dialect. 

Shaw  kicked  back  his  chair,  go- 
ing over  to  pound  the  cook  on  the 
back.  For  once,  the  sourness  was 
absent  from  his  voice. 

“He  says  he  can  get  us  workers 
then,  who’ll  obey  with  no  questions 
asked,  and  won’t  cost  us  more  than 
enough  to  buy  them  cheap  food.  His 
tong  will  be  glad  to  furnish  them 
on  his  say-so.  Since  Japan  con- 
quered them,  and  they  digested  the 
Japanese  into  their-  own  nation 
again,  it  seems  they  need  room  to 
expand. 

“Darn  it,  Erin,  with  even  the  Chi- 
nese cook  behind  you,  we’re  bound 
to  beat  Stewart.” 

VI. 

Captain  Hitchkins  had  left  the 
unloading  to  the  ruffian  he  called  his 
mate  and  was  examining  the  prog- 


ress made  on  the  island.  His  rough 
English  face  was  a curious  blend  of 
awe  and  skepticism.  “Naow  was 
that  ’ere  a ship,  mitey,”  he  told  Erin, 
“I’d  s’y  ’twas  a maost  seaworthy 
job,  that  I would,  thaough  she’s 
lackin’  a bit  o’  keel.  ’N’  I m’y  allaow 
as  she’s  not  bad,  not  bad  a’tawl.” 

Erin  let  him  talk  on,  paying  as 
little  attention  to  his  speech  as  the 
captain  would  have  to  a landlubber’s 
comments  on  the  tub  of  a freighter. 
Hitchkins  was  entirely  satisfied  with 
that  arrangement.  The  Santa  Maria 
could  speak  for  herself. 

The  hull  was  completed,  except  for 
a section  deliberately  left  open  for 
the  admission  of  the  main  atomic 
generator,  and  a gleaming  coat  of 
silver  lacquer  had  been  applied,  to 
give  the  necessary  luster  for  the  de- 
flection of  the  Sun’s  rays.  In  com- 
parison to  a seagoing  ship,  she  was 
small,  but  here  on  the  ways,  seen 
by  herself,  she  loomed  up  like  some 
monster  out  of  a fantasy  book.  Even 
with  the  motors  installed,  and  food 
for  six  years  stocked,  she  still  held 
a comfortable  living  space  for  the 
eight  men  who  would  go  -with  her. 

“I  heard  as  ’aow  they’ve  a new 
lawr  passed,  mikin’  aout  against  the 
like  o’  such,  thaough,”  Hitchkins 
went  on.  “Naow  w’y  would  they  do 
that?” 

“People  are  always  afraid  of  new 
things,  captain.  I’m  not  worried 
about  it,  though.”  Erin  turned  over 
the  bills  of  lading.  “Have  any  trou- 
ble this  trip?” 

“Some  o’  the  men  were  minded 
the  p’y  was  a bit  laow.  But  they 
chinged  their  minds  w’en  they  come 
to,  that  they  did.”  He  chuckled. 
I’ve  a bit  of  a w’y  wi’  the  men,  sir.” 

They  were  back  at  the  dock  now, 
watching  the  donkey  engines  labor- 
ing under  the  load  of  alloy  plates 
that  was  being  transferred  to  the 
machine  shop.  The  Chinese  labor- 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


ti 

ers  “ were  sweating  and  struggling 
with  the  trucks  on  which  these  were 
hauled,  but  they  grinned  at  him 
and  nodded.  He  had  no  complaint 
with  the  labor  Kung  had  obtained. 
If  the  money  held  out,  things  looked 
hopeful. 

Jack  Stewart  located  him,  and 
yelled.  “There’s  a Mr.  Stewart  at 
the  office,”  he  said  flatly.  “He  came 
while  you  were  showing  Captain 
Hitchkins  the  ship,  and  is  waiting  for 
you.  Shall  I tell  him  to  go  on  wait- 
ing?” 

“No,  I’ll  see  him;  might  as  well 
find  out  the  worst.”  Stewart  had 
visiphoned  that  he  was  coming  un- 
der a temporary  truce,  so  Erin  was 
not  surprised.  “Carry  on,  captain.” 
He  turned  after  Jack  toward  the 
shack,  wishing  the  boy  would  treat 
his  father  a little  less  coldly.  It 
wasn’t  good  for  a man  to  feel  that 
way  about  his  father,  and  he  wished 
Stewart  no  personal  troubles. 

Jack  swung  off  toward  the  ship 
as  they  sighted  Stewart,  and  the 
older  man’s  eyes  followed  the  retreat- 
ing figure. 

“He’s  a good  boy,  Greg,”  Erin 
said,  not  unkindly.  “I  didn’t  plan 
this,  you  know.” 

“Skip  it.  He’s  no  concern  of  mine, 
the  stubborn  ass.”  Stewart  held  out 
a newspaper.  “I  thought  you  might 
be  interested  to  know  that  the  law 
has  been  passed  against  the  use  of 
atomic  power  in  any  spaceship.  It 
just  went  through  the  State  legis- 
lature and  was  signed  by  the  gover- 
nor.” 

“Don’t  you  think  it’s  a bit  high- 
handed? I though  that  interstate 
and  international  commerce  was  out 
of  the  hands  of  the  State  legisla- 
tures.” 

Stewart  tapped  the  paper.  “But 
there’s  no  provision  against  their 
ruling  on  interplanetary  commerce, 
Erin.  A few  scare  stories  in  the 


Sunday  supplements,  and  a few  din- 
ners to  the  right  men  did  the  trick. 
They  were  sure  the  Martians  might 
find  the  secret  and  turn  atomic 
power  back  on  us.” 

“So  you  had  to  come  and  bring 
me  the  news.  I suppose  you  expect 
me  to  quit  now,  and  twiddle  my 
thumbs.” 

“That  offer  of  a berth  on  my  ship 
— which  will  work — still  stands.  Of 
course,  if  I have  to  get  out  an  in- 
junction to  stop  you,  it  will  make 
matters  a little  more  difficult,  but 
the  result  will  be  the  same.” 

Erin  smiled  grimly.  “That  was 
the  poorest  move  you’ve  made, 
Greg,”  he  said.  “Your  lawmakers 
bungled.  I read  the  law,  and  it 
forbids  the  use  of  atomic  power  in 
the  ‘vacuum  of  space.’  And  good 
scientists  will  tell  you  that  a vacuum 
is  absolute  nothing  space — and  be- 
tween the  planets,  at  least,  there 
are  a few  molecules  of  matter  to  the 
cubic  inch.  Your  law  and  injuction 
won’t  work.” 

“You’ve  seen  a lawyer,  I sup- 
pose?” 

“I  have,  and  he  assures  me  there’s 
nothing  to  stop  me.  Furthermore, 
until  I reach  space,  the  law  doesn’t 
apply,  and  when  I’m  in  space,  no 
Earth-made  laws  can  govern  me.” 
Stewart  shrugged.  “So  you’ve  put 
one  over  on  me  again.  You  always 
were  persistent,  Erin.  The  only  man 
I haven’t  been  able  to  beat — yet. 
Maybe  I’ll  have  to  wait  until  your 
crazy  ship  fails,  but  I hope  not.” 
“I’ll  walk  down  to  the  dock  with 
you,”  Erin  offered.  “Drop  in  any 
time  you  want  to,  provided  you  come 
alone.”  He  was  feeling  almost 
friendly  now  that  success  was  in 
sight.  Stewart  fell  in  beside  him, 
his  eyes  turned  toward  the  group  of 
laborers  Jack  was  directing. 

“I  suppose—”  he  began,  and 
stopped. 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


85 


“He  goes  along,  according  to  his 
own  wishes.” 

Stewart  grunted.  “You  realize, 
Erin,  that  one  false  attempt  might 
set  the  possibility  of  the  public’s  ac- 
cepting rocket  flight  back  fifty  years. 
And  the  men  in  the  ship  would  be 
— well,  wouldn’t  be.”  He  hesitated. 
“How'  much  would  you  take  to  stop 
it?” 

“You  know  better  than  that.” 
But  Erin  realized  that  the  question 
was  more  an  automatic  reaction  than 
anything  else.  When  Stewart  asked 
that,  he  could  see  no  other  solution, 
and  money  had  been  his  chief 
weapon  since  he  made  his  first  for- 
tune. 

As  the  man  left  in  the  little  boat 
that  had  brought  him,  Erin  won- 
dered, though.  Was  Stewart  licked, 
for  once  and  for  all?  Or  was  it  only 
that  the  combination  of  seeing  his 
son  turned  against  him,  and  finding 
his  carefully  laid  scheme  hadn’t 
made  a decent  fizzle?  He  shrugged 
and  dismissed  it.  There  seemed  little 
more  chance  for  trouble,  but  if  it 
came,  it  would  be  the  unexpected, 
and  worry  would  do  no  good. 

It  was  the  unexpected,  but  they 
were  not  entirely  unwarned.  The 
first  pale  light  of  the  false  dawn 
showed  when  a commotion  at  the 
door  awakened  them.  Doug  got  up 
grumply  and  went  groping  toward 
the  key.  "Some  darned  chink  in  a 
fight,  I suppose,”  he  began. 

Then  he  let  out  a sound  that 
scarcely  fitted  a human  throat,  and 
jerked  back  in.  The  others  could 
see,  only  two  small,  rounded  arms 
that  came  up  around  his  neck,  and 
a head  of  hair  that  might  have  been 
brown  in  a clearer  light.  The  voice 
was  almost  hysterical. 

“Doug!  Oh,  I was  afraid  I 
wouldn’t  get  here  in  time.” 

“Helen!”  Doug’s  words  were 


frigid,  but  he  trembled  under  the 
robe.  “What  are — Don’t  start 
anything — I saw  the  letter.” 
They  could  see  her  more  clearly 
now,  and  Jimmy  whistled.  No  won- 
der Doug  had  taken  it  so  hard.  She 
was  almost  crying,  and  her  arms 
refused  to  let  him  go.  “I  knew 
you’d  seen  the  first  page — part  of 
it.  But  you  didn’t  read  all.” 

“Well?”  Only  the  faint  ghost  of 
a doubt  tinged  his  inflection. 

“I  wasn’t  just  acting  the  Satur- 
day before;  I meant  it.  That’s  why 
I was  writing  the  letter — to  tell  Mr. 
Stewart  I was  through  with  him.” 
She  groped  into  her  purse  and  came 
out  with  a wrinkled  sheet.  “Here, 
you  can  see  for  yourself.  And  then 
you  were  gone  and  I found  this  in 
the  wastebasket  where  you  threw 
it,  so  I didn’t  quit.  I thought  you’d 
never  speak  to  me.  Believe  me, 
Doug?” 

His  wizened  little  face  wasn’t 
funny  now,  though  two  red  spots 
showed  up  ridiculously  on  his  white 
skin.  His  long,  tapering  fingers 
groped  toward  her,  touched,  and 
drew  back.  She  caught  them 
quickly.  “Well—”  he  said  again; 
then,  “what  are  you  doing  here,  any- 
how, Helen  . . . Helenya?” 

She  jerked  guiltily.  “Stewart. 
His  lieutenant — Russell — wanted  the 
combination  to  your  alarm  system 
again— forgot  it.” 

“You  gave  it?” 

“I  had  to.  Then  I came  here  to 
warn  you.  There  are  a bunch  of 
them,  every  rat  on  his  force,  and 
they’re  coming  here.  I was  afraid 
you’d  be — ” 

There  was  something  almost  won- 
derful about  Doug  then.  All  the 
silly  cockiness  and  self-consciousness 
were  gone.  "All  right,”  he  said 
quietly.  "Go  back  to  the  cook  shack 
and  stay  there;  you’ll  know  where 
to  find  it.  No,  do  as  I say.  We’ll 


26 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


talk  it  over  later,  Helen.  I don’t 
want  you  around  when  it  happens. 
Go  on.  Erin,  Tom,  you’ll  know 
what  to  do.  I'll  wake  the  Chinese 
and  get  them  in  order.”  And  he 
was  gone  at  a run. 

VII. 

They  didn’t  stop  for  clothes,  but 
went  out  into  the  chill  air  as  they 
were.  Doug  had  the  Chinese  lined 
up  and  was  handing  out  the  few 
spare  weapons  grimly,  explaining 
while  he  worked.  A tall  north-coun- 
try yellow  man  asked  a few  ques- 
tions in  a careful  Harvard  accent, 
then  turned  back  and  began  bark- 
ing orders  in  staccato  Mandarin. 
Whether  they  would  be  any  good 
in  a fight  was  a question,  but  the 
self-appointed  leader  seemed  to 
know  his  business.  They  were  no 
cowards,  at  least. 

Tom  Shaw  passed  Jimmy  a dried 
plug  of  tobacco.  “Better  take  it,” 
he  advised.  “When  you're  fighting 
the  first  time,  it  takes  something 
strong  in  your  mouth  to  keep  your 
stomach  down,  son.  And  shoot  for 
their  bellies — it’s  easier  and  just  as 
sure.” 

There  was  no  time  to  throw  up 
embankments  at  the  wharf,  so  they 
drew  back  to  the  higher  ground, 
away  from  the  buildings,  which 
would  have  sheltered  them,  but  cov- 
ered any  flanking  movement  by  the 
gunmen.  Jack  stared  incredulously 
at  the  gun  in  his  hand,  and  wiped 
the  sweat  from  his  hands.  “Better 
lend  me  some  of  that  tobacco,”  he 
said  wryly.  “My  stomach’s  already 
begun  fighting.  You  using  that 
heavy  thing?” 

“Sure.”  The  gun  was  a sixty- 
pound  machine  rifle,  equipped  with 
homemade  grips  and  shoulder  and 
chest  pads,  set  for  single  fire.  It 
looked  capable  of  crushing  Shaw’s 


lanky  figure  at  the  first  recoil,  but 
he  carried  it  confidently.  “It’s  been 
done  before;  grew  up  with  a gun 
in  my  hand  in  the  Green  Moun- 
tains.” 

Erin  rubbed  a spot  over  his  heart 
surreptitiously  and  waited.  Stewart 
would  be  defeated  only  when  he 
died,  it  seemed,  and  maybe  not  then. 

Then  they  made  out  the  figures 
in  the  tricky  light  of  the  dawn,  long 
shadows  that  slunk  silently  over  the 
dock  and  advanced  up  the  hill  to- 
ward the  bunkhouse.  Some  move- 
ment must  have  betrayed  the  watch- 
ers, for  one  of  the  advancing  figures 
let  out  a yell  and  pointed. 

“Come  on,  mugs,”  a hoarse  voice 
yelled.  “Here’s  our  meat,  begging 
to  be  caught.  A bonus  to  the  first 
man  that  gets  one.” 

Wiling!  Shaw  twitched  and  swore. 
“Onlj7  a crease,”  he  whispered,  “and 
an  accident.  They  can’t  shoot.”  He 
raised  the  heavy  gun,  coming  up- 
right, and  aimed  casually.  It  spoke 
sharply,  once,  twice,  then  in  a slow 
tattoo.  The  light  made  the  shoot- 
ing almost  impossible,  but  two  of 
the  men  yelled,  and  one  dropped. 

“Make  it  before  sunup,”  he 
warned,  as  the  thugs  drew  back 
nervously.  “The  light’ll  hit  our 
eyes  then  and  give  them  the  advan- 
tage.” Then  the  men  below  evi- 
dently decided  it  was  only  one  man 
they  had  to  fear,  and  came  boiling 
up,  yelling  to  encourage  themselves; 
experience  had  never  taught  them 
to  expect  resistance.  Shaw  dropped 
back  on  his  stomach,  beside  the 
others,  shooting  with  even  precision, 
while  Erin  ancl  Jimmy  followed  suit. 
The  rest  were  equipped  only  with 
automatics,  which  did  little  good. 

“Huh!”  Jack  rubbed  a shoulder 
where  blood  trickled  out,  his  eyes 
still  on  the  advance. 

Erin  felt  the  gun  in  his  hand  buck 
backward  and  realizing  suddenly 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


97 


that  he  was  firing  on  the  rushing 
men. 

Jimmy’s  voice  was  surprised:  “I 

hit  a man — I think  he’s  dead.”  He 
shivered  and  stuck  his  face  back  to 
the  sights,  trying  to  repeat  it. 

Shaw  spat  out  a brown  stream. 
“Three,”  he  said  quietly.  “Out  of 
practice,  I guess.” 

The  few  Chinese  with  hand  arms 
attempted  a cross  fire  as  the  men 
came  abreast,  but  their  marksman- 
ship was  hopeless.  Then  all  were 
swept  together,  -waves  breaking 
against  each  other,  and  individual 
details  were  lost.  Guns  were  no 
good  at  close  range,  and  Erin 
dropped  the  rifle,  grabbing  quickly 
for  the  hatchet  in  his  belt  as  a 
heavy-set  man  singled  him  out. 

He  saw  the  gun  butt  coming  at 
him  in  the  man’s  hand,  ducked  in- 
stinctively, and  felt  it  hit  somewhere. 
But  the  movement  with  the  hatchet 
seemed  to  complete  itself,  and  he 
saw  the  man  drop.  Something  tin- 
gled up  his  spine,  and  the  weapon 
came  down  again,  viciously.  Brains 
spattered.  “Shouldn’t  hit  a man 
who’s  down,”  a voice  seemed  to  say, 
but  the  heat  of  fighting  was  on  him, 
and  he  felt  no  regret  at  the  broken 
rule. 

A sharp  stab  stuck  at  his  back, 
and  he  swung  to  see  a knife  flash- 
ing for  a second  stroke.  Pivoting 
on  his  heel,  he  dived,  striking  low, 
and  heard  the  knife  swish  by  over 
his  head.  Then  he  grabbed,  caught, 
and  twisted,  and  the  mobsman 
dropped  the  metal  from  a broken 
arm.  Most  of  the  fighters  had  turned 
away  down  the  hill,  and  he  moved 
toward  the  others. 

Jimmy  spat  out  a stream  of  to- 
bacco in  the  face  of  an  opponent, 
just  as  another  swung  a knife  from 
his  side.  Erin  jumped  forward,  but 
Tom  Shaw  was  before  him,  and  the 
knife  fell  limply  as  Shaw  fired  an 


automatic  from  his  hip.  “Five,” 
Erin  heard  his  dispassionate  voice. 
Beside  Shaw,  Hank  Ylecek  was  re- 
ducing heads  with  a short  iron  bar. 

Erin  moved  into  the  fight  again, 
swinging  the  hatchet  toward  a blood- 
covered  face,  not  waiting  to  see  its 
effect.  Two  of  the  Chinese  lay  qui- 
etly, and  one  was  dragging  himself 
away,  but  none  of  his  men  seemed 
fatally  injured.  He  scooped  up  a 
fallen  knife,  jumped  for  one  man, 
and  twisted  suddenly  to  sink  it  in 
the  side  of  Jack’s  opponent,  then 
jerked  toward  the  two  who  were 
driving  Doug  backward. 

Doug  stumbled  momentarily,  and 
something  slashed  down.  Morse 
saw  the  little  body  sag  limply,  and 
threw  the  hatchet.  Metal  streaked 
through  the  air  to  bury  itself  in  the 
throat  of  one  of  the  men,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  sideways.  Kung  stood 
there,  another  kitchen  knife  poised 
for  the  throwing.  The  remaining 
one  of  Doug’s  assailants  saw  it,  too, 
and  the  knife  and  gun  seemed  to 
work  as  one.  Kung  gasped  and 
twisted  over  on  his  bad  leg,  the  knife 
missing;  but  the  hatchet  found  its 
mark.  Only  a split  second  had 
elapsed,  but  time  had  telescoped  out 
until  a hundred  things  could  be  seen 
in  one  brief  flash. 

And  then,  without  warning,  it 
seemed,  the  battle  was  over,  and 
the  gunmen  drew  back,  running  for 
the  dock,  Shaw  grabbed  for  his 
gun,  and  yelled,  “Stop!”  A whining 
bullet  carried  his  message  more 
strongly,  and  they  halted.  He  spat 
the  last  of  his  tobacco  out.  “Pick 
up  your  dead  and  wounded,  and  get 
out!  Tell  Stewart  he  can  have  the 
bodies  with  our  compliments!” 

Russell  lay  a few  yards  off,  and 
their  leader  had  been  the  first  to 
fall  under  Erin’s  hatchet.  Lacking 
direction,  they  milled  back,  less  than 


28 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


a third  of  the  original  number,  and 
began  dragging  the  bodies  toward 
the  dock.  Shaw  followed  them 
grimly,  the  ugly  barrel  of  the  ma- 
chine gun  lending  authority  to  his 
words,  and  Erin  turned  toward 
Doug. 

The  physicist  was  sitting  up. 
“Shoulder,”  he  said  thickly.  “Only 
stunned  when  I hit  the  ground.  Bet- 
ter see  about  Kung  over  there.” 
Then  a rushing  figure  of  a girl 
swooped  down,  taking  possession  of 
him,  and  biting  out  choking  cries 
at  his  wound.  Erin  left  him  in 
Helen’s  hands  and  turned  to  the 
cook. 

It  was  too  late.  Kung  had  joined 
his  ancestors,  and  the  big  hill-coun- 
try Chinese  stood  over  him.  “A  re- 
grettable circumstance,  Mr.  Morse,” 
he  ennunciated.  “Hsi  Kung  ten- 
dered you  his  compliments  and  re- 
quested that  I carry  on  for  him. 
I can  assure  you  that  our  work  will 
continue  as  before.  In  view  of  the 
fact  that  you  are  somewhat  depleted 
as  to  funds,  Hsi  Kung  has  requested 
that  his  funeral  be  a simple  one.” 

Erin  looked  at  Kung’s  body  in  dull 
wonder;  since  he  could  remember, 
the  man  had  apparently  lived  only 
that  he  might  have  a funeral  whose 
display  would  impress  the  whole  of 
his  native  village  in  China.  “I  guess 
we  can  ship  him  back,”  he  said 
slowly.  “How  many  others?” 

“Two,  sir.  Three  with  injuries, 
but  not  fatal,  I am  sure.  I must 
congratulate  your  men  on  the  effi- 
ciency with  which  the  battle  was 
conducted.  Most  extraordinary.” 

“Thanks.”  Erin’s  throat  felt  dry, 
and  his  knees  threatened  to  buckle 
under  him,  while  his  heart  did  ir- 
regular flipflops.  To  him  it  seemed 
that  it  was  more  than  extraordinary 
none  of  his  men  were  dead;  all  were 
battered  up,  but  they  had  gotten 


off  with  miraculous  ease.  “Can  some 
of  your  men  cook?” 

“I  should  feel  honored,  sir,  if  you 
would  appoint  your  servant,  Robert 
Wah,  to  Hsi  Kung’s  former  posi- 
tion.” 

“Good.  Serve  coffee  to  all,  and 
the  best  you  can  find  for  any  that 
want  to  eat— your  men  as  well.” 
Then,  to  Shaw  who  had  come  up, 
“Finished?” 

Shaw  nodded.  “All  gone,  injured 
and  wounded  with  them.  Wonder 
if  Stewart’s  fool  enough  to  drag  us 
into  court  over  it?  I didn’t  expect 
this  of  him.” 

“Neither  did  I,  but  it  will  be 
strictly  private,  I’m — sure.”  Erin’s 
knees  weakened  finally,  and  Shaw 
eased  him  to  a seat.  He  managed  a 
smile  at  the  foreman’s  worried  face. 
“It’s  nothing — just  getting  old.” 
He’d  have  to  see  a doctor  about  his 
heart  soon.  But  there  was  still  work 
to  be  done.  With  surprise,  he  no- 
ticed blood  trickling  down  one  arm. 
Stewart  had  done  that;  it  was  al- 
ways Stewart. 

VIII. 

The  clerks  in  Gregory  Stewart’s 
outer  office  sat  stiffly  at  their  work, 
and  the  machine  beat  out  a regular 
tattoo,  without  any  of  the  usual  in- 
terruptions for  talk.  Stewart’s  pri- 
vate secretary  alone  sat  idle,  biting 
her  nails.  In  her  thirteen  years  of 
work,  she  thought  she  had  learned 
all  of  the  man’s  moods,  but  this  was 
a new  one. 

He  hadn’t  said  anything,  and  there 
had  been  no  blustering,  but  the  ten- 
sion in  the  office  all  came  from  the 
room  in  which  he  sat,  sucking  at  his 
pipe  and  staring  at  a picture.  That 
picture,  signed  “Mara,”  had  always 
puzzled  her.  It  had  been  there  while 
his  wife  was  still  living,  but  it  was 
not  hers. 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


29 


The  buzzer  on  the  P.B.X.  board 
broke  in,  and  the  girl  operator  for- 
got her  other  calls  to  plug  in  in- 
stantly. “Yes,  sir,”  she  said  hastily. 
“Erin  Morse,  on  Kroll  Island.  I 
have  the  number.  Right  away,  sir.” 

She  could  have  saved  her  unusual 
efforts;  at  the  moment,  Stewart  was 
not  even  conscious  of  her  existence. 
He  stared  at  the  blank  visiscreen,  his 
lips  moving,  but  no  sound  came  out. 
There  was  a set  speech  by  his  side, 
written  carefully  in  the  last  hour, 
but  now  that  he  had  made  his  deci- 
sion, he  crumpled  it  and  tossed  it  in 
the  wastebasket. 

The  screen  snapped  into  life,  and 
the  face  of  his  son  was  on  it,  a face 
that  froze  instantly.  At  least  they 
were  open  for  calls  today,  which  was 
unusual;  ordinarily,  no  one  answered 
the  buzzer.  Stewart’s  eyes  centered 
on  the  swelling  under  the  shirt, 
where  the  boy’s  wound  was  band- 
aged. “Jack,”  he  said  quickly.  “You 
all  right?” 

The  boy’s  voice  was  not  the  one 
he  knew.  “Your  business,  sir!” 

Humbleness  came  hard  to  Stew- 
art, who  had  fought  his  way  up  from 
the  raw  beginnings  only  because  he 
lacked  it.  Now  it  was  the  only 
means  to  his  end.  “I’d  like  to  speak 
to  Erin,  please.” 

“Mr.  Morse  is  busy.”  The  boy 
reached  for  the  switch,  but  the 
other’s  quick  motion  stayed  his 
hand. 

“This  is  important.  I’m  not  fight- 
ing this  morning.” 

Jack  shrugged,  wincing  at  the  dart 
of  pain,  and  turned  away.  Stewart 
watched  him  fade  from  the  screen’s 
focus,  and  waited  patiently  until 
Erin’s  face  came  into  view.  It  was 
a tired  face,  and  the^rect  shoulders 
were  less  erect  this  time. 

Morse  stared  into  the  viewer  with- 
out a change  of  expression.  “Well, 
Stewart?” 


“The  fight’s  over,  Erin.”  It  was 
the  hardest  sentence  Stewart  had 
ever  spoken,  but  he  was  glad  to  get 
it  over.  “I  hadn’t  meant  things  to 
work  out  the  way  they  did,  last 
night.  That  was  Russell’s  idea,  the 
dirty  rat,  and  I’m  not  sorry  he  found 
his  proper  reward.  When  I do  any 
killing,  I’ll  attend  to  it  myself.” 

Erin  still  stared  at  him  with  a set 
face,  and  he  went  on,  digging  out 
every  word  by  sheer  will  power.  “I’d 
meant  them  to  blow  up  your  ship, 
I admit.  Maybe  that  would  have 
been  worse,  I don’t  know.  But  Rus- 
sell must  have  had  a killing  streak 
in  him  somewhere,  and  took  things 
into  his  own  hands.  Who  was 
killed?” 

“A  Chinese  cook  and  two  others, 
of  the  same  race.  Your  men  might 
have  done  more.” 

“Maybe.  Men  might  have.  Yel- 
low river  rats  never  could  put  up 
a decent  fight  against  opposition  of 
the  caliber  you’ve  got.”  Stewart 
checked  off  a point  on  a small  list 
and  asked,  “Any  relatives  of  the 
dead?” 

“The  cook  had  an  uncle  in  China 
—he  must  have  slipped  over  the 
border,  since  he’s  not  American- 
born.  I’m  shipping  him  back  with 
the  best  funeral  I can  afford.  The 
others  came  from  Chinatown.” 

“I’ll  have  the  cook  picked  up  to- 
day and  see  that  he  gets  a funeral 
with  a thousand  paid  mourners.  The 
same  to  the  others,  and  ten  thou- 
sand cash  to  the  relatives  of  each. 
No,  I’d  rather;  I’m  asking  it  as  a 
favor,  Erin.” 

Erin  smiled  thinly.  “If  you  wish. 
Your  rules  may  be  queer,  from  my 
standards,  but  it  seems  you  do  have 
a code  of  your  owm.  I’m  glad  of 
that,  even  if  it  is  a bit  rough.” 

Stewart  twitched  hfs  mouth 
jerkily;  that  hurt,  somehow.  Erin 


30 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


had  a habit  of  making  him  seem  in- 
ferior. Perhaps  his  code  was  not 
the  sporting  one,  but  it  did  include 
two  general  principles:  mistakes 

aren’t  rectified  by  alibis,  and  a man 
who  has  proved  himself  your  equal 
deserves  respect. 

“I  don’t  fight  a better  man,  any- 
way, Erin,”  he  admitted  slowly. 
“You  took  all  I handed  out  and 
came  up  fighting.  So  you’ll  have 
no  trouble  getting  supplies  from  now 
on,  and  we’ll  complete  this  race  on 
equal  footing.  How  did  Jack  take 
it?” 

“Like  a man,  Greg.”  In  all  the 
years  of  their  enmity,  neither  had 
quite  dropped  the  use  of  first  names, 
and  Erin’s  resentment  was  melting. 
“He’s  a fine  boy.  You  sired  well.” 

“Thank  God  for  that  at  least. 
Erin,  you  hold  a patent  on  an  air- 
reconditioning machine,  and  I need 
it.  The  government’s  building  sub- 
marines, and  I can  get  a nice  bunch 
of  contracts  if  I can  supply  that  and 
assure  them  of  good  air  for  as  long 
as  they  want  to  stay  under.”  Stew- 
art’s voice  had  gone  businesslike. 
“Would  ten  percent  royalties  and  a 
hundred  thousand  down  buy  all  but 
space  rights?  It’s  not  charity,  if 
that  worries  you.” 

“I  didn’t  think  it  wras.”  For  him- 
self, the  price  mattered  little,  but 
here  was  a chance  to  pay  back  some 
of  the  money  the  others  had  invested 
with  him.  He  made  his  decision  in- 
stantly. “Send  over  your  contracts, 
and  I’ll  sign  them.” 

“Good.  Now,  with  all  threats  gone, 
how  about  that  berth  on  my  ship  I 
offered  you?  She’ll  be  finished  in  a 
week,  with  a dependable  fuel,  and 
there’s  room  for  one  more.” 

Erin  smiled  broadly  now  at  Stew- 
art’s old  skepticism  of  his  methods. 
“Thanks*  but  the  > Santa  Maria  is 
practically  done,  too,  using  a de- 


pendable 'power  source.  Why  not 
come  with  me?” 

It  was  Stewart’s  turn  to  smile. 
And  as  he  cut  connections,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  even  the  face  in  the 
picture  was  smiling  a little  for  the 
first  time  in  almost  forty  years. 

Erin  rubbed  his  wounded  arm 
tenderly  and  wondered  what  it  would 
feel  like  to  go  ahead  without  a con- 
stant, lurking  fear.  At  the  moment, 
the  change  was  too  radical  for  his 
comprehension.  Things  looked  too 
easy. 

IX. 

The  Santa  Maria  was  off  the  skids 
and  the  ground  swell  on  the  ocean 
bobbed  her  up  and  down  lightly,  like 
a horse  champing  at  its  bit.  Not 
clipper  built,  Erin  thought,  but 
something  they  could  be  proud  of. 
Now  that  she  was  finished,  all  the 
past  trouble  seemed  unreal,  like 
some  disordered  nightmare. 

“Jack  and  I are  making  a test 
run  at  once,”  he  announced.  “It’ll 
be  dark  in  a few  minutes,  so  you  can 
follow  our  jets  and  keep  account  of 
our  success  or  failure.  No,  just  the 
two  of  us,  this  first  time.  We’re 
going  up  four  thousand  miles  and 
coming  back  down.” 

“How  many  of  us  go  on  the  regu- 
lar trip?”  Jimmy  wanted  to  know. 
“Dutch  says  he’ll  stay  on  the  ground 
and  design  them.  Since  Doug’s 
turned  into  a married  man,  he’ll  stay 
with  his  wife,  I suppose,  but  how 
about  the  rest?” 

They  nodded  in  unison;  though 
there  had  been  no  decision,  it  had 
always  been  understood  that  all  were 
to  go.  Doug  wrapped  his  arm  pos- 
sessively aroi<*d  Helen  and  faced 
Erin.  “I’m  staying  with  my  wife, 
all  right,”  he  stated,  “but  she's  com- 
ing along.  Why  should  men  hog  all 
the  glory?” 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


SI 


Erin  glanced  at  the  girl  hastily. 
This  had  not  been  in  the  plans.  “I’m 
going,”  she  said  simply,  and  he  nod- 
ded. This  thing  was  too  great  for 
distinction  of  sex — or  race.  He  mo- 
tioned to  Robert  Wah  who  stood  in 
the  background,  looking  on  wist- 
fully, and  the  tall  Chinese  bowed 
deeply. 

“I  should  be  honored,  sir,  by  the 
privilege.”  Pleasure  lighted  his  face 
quickly,  and  he  moved  forward  un- 
obtrusively, adding  himself  to  their 
company.  That  made  eight,  the 
number  the  ship  was  designed  for. 

Jack  was  already  climbing  into  the 
port,  and  Erin  turned  to  follow  him, 
motioning  the  others  back.  There 
was  no  need  risking  additional  lives 
on  this  first  test,  though  he  felt  con- 
fident of  this  gleaming  monster  he 
had  dreamed  and  fought  for. 

“Ready?”  he  asked,  strapping 
himself  in.  Jack  nodded  silently, 
and  Erin’s  fingers  reached  for  the 
firing  keys.  They  were  trembling  a 
little.  Here  under  them,  lay  the 
work  of  a lifetime.  Suppose  Stewart 
was  right,  after  all?  He  shook  the 
sudden  doubt  from  himself,  and  the 
keys  came  down  under  his  fingers. 

The  great  ship  spun  around  in  the 
water,  pointing  straight  out  toward 
Europe.  The  ground  swell  made  the 
first  few  seconds  rough  riding,  but 
she  gathered  speed  under  her  heels 
and  began  skimming  the  crests  until 
her  motion  was  perfectly  even.  All 
the  years  Erin  had  spent  in  train- 
ing, in  planning,  and  in  imagining, 
a hundred  times,  every  emergency 
and  its  answers  rose  in  his  mind,  and 
the  metal  around  him  became  almost 
an  extension  of  his  body. 

Now  she  was  barely  touching  the 
water,  though  there  was  a great  wake 
behind  her  that  seethed  and  boiled. 
Then  the  wake  came  to  an  end,  and 
she  rose  in  the  air  around  her,  the 


stubby  fins  supporting  her  at  the 
speed  she  was  making.  Erin  opened 
up  the  motors,  tilting  the  stick  deli- 
cately in  his  hand,  and  she  leaped 
through  the  air  like  a soul  torn  free. 
He  watched  the  hull  pyrometers, 
but  the  tough  alloy  could  stand  an 
amazing  amount  of  atmospheric  fric- 
tion. 

“Climb!”  he  announced  at  last, 
and  the  nose  began  tilting  up 
smoothly.  The  rear-viewer  on  the 
instrument  board  showed  the  waves 
running  together  and  the  ocean 
seemed  to  drop  away  from  them  and 
shrink.  At  half  power  she  was  ris- 
ing rapidly  in  a vertical  climb. 

“Look!”  Jack’s  voice  cut  through 
the  heady  intoxication  Erin  felt,  and 
he  took  his  eyes  from  the  panel.  Off 
to  the  side,  and  at  some  distance, 
a long  streak  of  light  climbed  into 
the  sky,  reached  their  height,  and 
went  on.  Even  through  the  insu- 
lated hull,  a faint  booming  sound 
reached  them.  “Stewart’s  ship! 
He’s  beat  us  to  the  start!” 

“The  fool!”  The  cry  was  im- 
pulsive, and  he  saw  the  boy  wince 
under  its  slightly.  “There  might 
be  some  small  chance,  though.  I 
hope  he  makes  it.  He’ll  follow  an 
orbit  that  takes  the  least  amount 
of  fuel,  and  we’ll  be  cutting  through 
at  least  a quarter  gravity  all  the  way 
for  comfort.  He  can’t  beat  us.” 

The  course  of  the  other  ship,  he 
could  see,  held  true  and  steady. 
Stewart  knew  how  to  pilot;  holding 
that  top-heavy  mass  of  metal  on  its 
tail  was  no  small  job. 

Jack  gripped  the  straps  that  held 
him  to  his  seat,  but  said  nothing, 
his  eyes  glued  on  the  blast  that 
mushroomed  down  from  the  other 
ship,  until  it  passed  out  of  sight. 
Behind  the  Santa  Maria,  the  pale- 
blue  jet  looked  insignificant  after 
seeing  the  other.  Something  prickled 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


32 

oddly  at  Erin’s  skin,  and  he  won- 
dered whether  that  was  the  Heavy- 
side  layer,  but  it  passed,  and  there 
was  only  the  press  of  acceleration. 

He  opened  up  again,  as  the  air 
dropped  behind,  and  the  smooth 
hum  of  the  atomics  answered 
sweetly.  Jack  released  himself  and 
hitched  his  way  toward  the  rear  ob- 
servation room,  then  fought  the  ac- 
celeration back  to  Erin’s  side.  “Jets 
are  perfect,”  he  reported.  “Not  a 
waver,  and  they’re  holding  in  line 
perfectly.  No  danger  to  the  tubes. 
How  high?” 

“Two  hundred  miles,  and  were 
making  about  twenty-five  miles  a 
minute  now.  Get  back  to  your  seat, 
son,  I’m  holding  her  up.”  He  tapped 
the  keys  for  more  power,  and 
grunted  as  the  pull  struck  him.  By 
the  time  they  were  a few  thousand 
miles  out,  most  of  Earth’s  gravity 
would  be  behind  them,  and  they 
wouldn’t  have  that  added  pressure 
to  contend  with.  Acceleration  alone 
was  bad  enough. 

At  the  two-thousand-mile  limit, 
Morse  twisted  the  wheel  of  the  con- 
trol stick  and  began  spinning  her 
over  on  her  tail.  Steering  without 
the  leverage  of  atmosphere  was 
tricky,  though  part  of  his  training 
had  taken  that  into  account,  to  the 
best  of  his  ability.  He  completed 
the  reversal  finally,  and  set  the  keys 
for  a deceleration  that  would  stop 
them  at  the  four-thousand-mile 
limit. 

Jack  was  staring  out  at  the  bril- 
liant points  made  by  the  stars 
against  the  black  of  space,  but  he 
gasped  as  Erin  cut  the  motors. 

- “How  far?”  he  asked  again.  “There 
seems  to  be  almost  no  gravity.” 

“Earth  is  still  pulling  us,  but  only 
a quarter  strength.  We’ve  reached 
the  four-thousand  mark  we  planned 


— and  proved  again  that  gravity 
obeys  the  law  of  inverse  squares.” 
The  novelty  of  the  sensation  ap- 
pealed to  him,  but  the  relief  from 
the  crushing  weight  was  his  real  rea- 
son for  cutting  power.  Now  his 
heart  labored  from  weight  and  ex- 
citement, and  he  caught  his  breath, 
waiting  for  it  to  steady  before  turn- 
ing back. 

“Ready?”  he  asked,  finally,  and 
power  came  on.  They  were  already 
moving  slowly  back,  drawn  by  the 
planet’s  pull.  “Hold  tight;  I’m  go- 
ing to  test  my  steering.”  Under  his 
hands  the  stick  moved  this  way  and 
that,  and  the  ship  struggled  to  an- 
swer, sliding  into  great  slow  curves 
that  would  have  been  sudden  twists 
and  turns  in  the  air.  All  his  in- 
genuity in  schooling  himself  hadn’t 
fully  compensated  for  the  difficulties, 
but  practice  soon  straightened  out 
the  few  kinks  left. 

His  breath  was  coming  in  short 
gasps  as  he  finished;  the  varying 
stress  of  gravity  and  acceleration 
had  hit  hard  at  him,  and  there  was 
a dull  thumping  in  his  chest.  “Take 
over,  Jack,”  he  ordered,  holding  his 
words  steady.  “Do  you  good  to 
learn.  Half'  acceleration.” 

But  the  thumping  went  on,  seem- 
ing to  grow  worse.  Each  breath 
came  out  with  an  effort.  Jack  was 
intent  on  his  controls,  though  there 
was  little  to  do  for  the  moment, 
and  did  not  notice;  for  that,  Erin 
was  grateful.  He  really  had  to  see 
a doctor;  only  fear  of  the  diagnosis 
had  made  him  put  it  off  this  long. 

“Reversal,”  Jack  called.  He  be- 
gan twisting  the  control,  relying  on 
pure  mathematics  and  quick  reac- 
tions to  do  the  trick.  They  began 
to  come  around,  but  Erin  could  feel 
it  was  wrong.  The  turn  went  too 
far,  was  inaccurately  balanced,  and 
the  ship  picked  up  a lateral  spin 
that  would  give  rise  to  other  diffi- 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


33 


culties.  Here  was  one  place  where 
youth  and  youth’s  quick  reflexes 
were  useless.  It  took  the  steady 
hand  of  calculating  judgment,  and 
to  the  head  that  had  imagined  this  so 
often  it  all  seemed  old. 

He  fought  his  way  forward,  press- 
ing back  the  heart  that  seemed  to 
burst  through  his  chest.  Jack  was 
doing  his  best,  but  he  was  not  the 
ship’s  master.  He  welcomed  Erin’s 
hand  that  reached  down  for  the  stick. 
Experience  had  corrected  the  few 
mistakes  of  the  previous  reversal, 
and  the  ship  began  to  come  around 
in  one  long  accurate  blast.  When 
it  stopped,  her  tail  was . steadily 
blasting  against  the  Earth. 

“I’ll  carry  on.”  Erin  knew  he 
had  to,  since  descent,  even  in  an 
atmosphere,  was  far  trickier  than  it 
might  seem.  To  balance  the  speed 
so  that  the  air-fins  supported  her, 
without  tearing  them  off  under  too 
much  pressure  required  no  small 
skill.  He  buckled  himself  back  in, 
and  let  her  fall  rapidly.  Time  was 
more  important,  something  told  him, 
than  the  ease  of  a slower  descent. 
He  waited  till  the  last  moment  be- 
fore tapping  on  more  power,  heard 
the  motors  thrumb  solidly,  and 
waited  for  the  first  signs  of  air.  The 
pyrometer  needles  rose  quickly,  but 
not  to  the  danger  point.  The  tin- 
gling feeling  lashed  through  him 
again,  and  was  gone,  and  he  began 
maneuvering  her  into  a spiral  that 
would  set  her  down  in  the  water 
where  she  could  coast  to  the  island. 
. He  glanced  back  at  the  boy,  whose 
face  expressed  complete  trust,  and 
bit  at  his  lips,  but  his  main  concern 
was  for  the  ship.  Once  destroyed, 
that  might  never  be  duplicated. 
Time,  he  prayed,  only  time  enough. 
The  ocean  was  coming  into  view 
through  thin  clouds  below,  but  it 
still  seemed  too  far. 

“God!”  Jack’s  cry  cut  into  his 


worries.  “To  the  left — it’s  the  other 
ship.” 

Erin  stole  a quick  glance  at  the 
window,  and  saw  a ragged  streak  of 
fire  in  the  distance.  Stewart’s  ship 
must  have  failed.  But  there  was 
no  time  for  that.  The  ocean  was 
near,  now. 

He  cut  into  a long  flat  glide,  striv- 
ing for  the  delicate  balance  of  speed 
and  angle  that  would  set  her  down 
without  a rebound,  and  held  her 
there.  A drag  from  the  friction  of 
the  water  told  him  finally  that  she 
was  down.  More  by  luck  than  de- 
sign, his  landing  was  near  the  take- 
off point,  and  the  island  began  pok- 
ing up  dimly  through  the  darkness. 
He  threw  on  the  weak  forward  jets, 
guessing  at  the  distance,  and  jug- 
gling the  controls. 

There  was  a red  mist  in  front  of 
his  eyes  that  made  seeing  difficult, 
but  he  let  her  creep  in  until  the 
wood  timbers  of  the  dock  stood  out 
clearly.  Then  the  mist  turned  black, 
and  he  had  only  time  to  cut  all 
controls.  He  couldn’t  feel  the  light 
crunch  as  she  touched  the  shore. 

Erin  was  in  bed  in  the  bunk- 
house  when  consciousness  returned, 
and  his  only  desire  was  to  rest  and 
relax.  The  strange  man  bending 
over  him  seemed  about  to  interfere, 
and  he  shoved  him  away  weakly. 
Tom  Shaw  bent  over  him,  putting 
his  hands  back,  and  holding  them 
until  he  desisted. 

“The  ship  is  perfect,”  Tom’s  voice 
assured  him,  oddly  soft  for  the  fore- 
man. “We’re  all  proud  of  you,  Erin, 
and  the  doctor  says  there’s  no  dan- 
ger now.” 

“Stewart?”  he  asked  weakly. 

“His  ship  went  out  a few  thou- 
sand miles,  and  the  tubes  couldn’t 
stand  the  concentrated  heat  of  his 
jets.  Worked  all  right  on  small  mod- 
els, but  the  volume  of  explosives  was 


St 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


cubed  with  the  square  of  the  tube 
diameter,  and  it  was  too  much.  We 
heard  his  radio  after  he  cut  through 
the  Heavyside,  and  he  was  trying  to 
bring  her  down  at  low  power  with- 
out  burning  them  out  completely. 
We  haven’t  heard  from  the  rescue 
squad,  but  they  hope  the  men  are 
safe.” 

The  strange  man  clucked  disap- 
provingly. “Not  too  much  talk,”  he 
warned.  “Let  him  rest.” 

Erin  stirred  again,  plucking  at  the 
covers.  So  he  finally  was  seeing  a 
doctor,  whether  he  wanted  to  or  not. 
“Is  there — •”  he  asked.  “Am  I — 
grounded?” 

Shaw’s  hand  fell  over  his  and  the 
grizzled  head  nodded.  “Sorry,  Erin.” 

X. 

Erin  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
bunkhouse,  looking  out  over  the 
buildings  toward  the  first  star  to 
c-ome  out.  Venus,  of  course,  but 
Mars  would  soon  show  up.  He  had 
not  yet  told  the  men  that  the  flight 
was  off,  and  they  were  talking  con- 
tentedly behind  him,  discussing  what 
they  would  find  on  Mars. 

A motorboat’s  drone  across  the 
water  caught  his  attention  and  he 
turned  his  eyes  to  the  ocean. 
“There’s  someone  coming,”  he  an- 
nounced. “At  least  they  seem  to  be 
headed  this  way.” 

-Jimmy  jumped  up,  scattering  the 
cards  he  had  been  playing  with  his 
father.  “Darn!  Must  be  the  re- 
porters. I notified  the  press  that  to- 
night was  supposed  to  be  the  take- 
off and  forgot  to  tell  them  it  was 
postponed  when  you  came  back  from 
the  test.  Shall  I send  them  back?” 

“Bring  them  up.  There  should 
be  room  enough  here  for  them.  Have 
Wah  serve  coffee.”  Erin  moved 
back  toward  his  bunk,  being  careful 
to  take  it  easy,  and  sank  down. 


“There’s  something  I have  to  tell 
them,  and  you  at  the  same  time.” 

Helen  brought  him  his  medicine 
and  he  took  it,  wondering  what  re- 
ception his  words  would  have  with 
the  newspapermen.  Previous  ex- 
perience had  made  him  expect  the 
worst.  But  these  men  were  quiet 
and  orderly  as  they  filed  in,  taking 
seats  around  the  recreation  tables. 
Even  though  it  had  failed,  Stew- 
art’s flight  had  taught  them  that 
rocketry  was  a serious  business. 
Also,  they  were  picked  men  from  the 
syndicates,  not  the  young  cubs  he 
had  dealt  with  before.  Wah  brought 
in  coffee  and  brandy. 

“Your  man  tells  us  the  flight  has 
been  delayed,”  one  of  them  began. 
He  showed  no  resentment  at  the  long 
ride  by  rail  and  boat  for  nothing. 
“Can  you  tell  us,  then,  when  you’re 
planning  to  make  it,  and  give  us 
some  idea  of  the  principle  of  flight 
you  use?” 

“Jimmy  can  give  you  mimeo- 
graphed sheets  of  the  ship’s  design 
and  power  system,”  Erin  answered. 
“But  the  flight  is  put  off  indefinitely. 
Probably  it  will  be  months  before 
it  occurs,  and  possibly  years.  It  de- 
pends on  how  quickly  I can  transfer 
my  knowledge  to  a younger  man.” 

“But  we  understood  a successful 
trial  had  already  been  made,  with 
no  trouble." 

“No  mechanical  trouble,  that  is. 
But,  gentlemen,  no  matter  how  per- 
fectly built  a machine  may  be,’ the 
human  element  must  always  be  con- 
sidered. In  this  case,  it  failed.  I’ve 
been  ordered  not  to  leave  the 
ground.” 

There  were  gasps  from  his  own 
men,  and  the  tray  in  Wah’s  hands 
spilled  to  the  floor,  unnoticed.  Shaw 
and  Jack  moved  about  among  the 
others,  speaking  in  low  voices. 

Among  the  newspapermen,  bewil- 
derment substituted  for  consterna- 


THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN 


35 


tion.  “I  fail  to  see — ” the  spokes- 
man said. 

Erin  found  it  difficult  to  explain 
to  laymen,  but  he  tried  an  example. 
“When  the  Wright  brothers  made 
their  first  power  flights,  they  had 
already  gotten  practice  from  gliders. 
But  suppose  one  of  them  had  been 
given  a plane  without  previous  ex- 
perience, and  told  to  flv  it  across 
the  Atlantic?  This,  to  a much 
greater  extent,  is  like  that. 

“Perhaps  later,  if  rocketry  be- 
comes established,  men  can  be  given 
flight  training  in  a few  weeljs.  Un- 
til then,  only  those  who  have  spent 
years  of  ground  work  can  hope  to 
master  the  more  difficult  problems 
of  astronautics.  This  may  sound 
like  boasting  to  you,  but  an  imme- 
diate flight  without  myself  as  pilot 
is  out  of  the  question.’’ 

Jack  struck  in,  silencing  their 
questioning  doubts.  “I  tried  it,  up 
there,”  he  told  them,  “and  I had 
some  experience  with  radio-con- 
trolled models.  But  mathematics 
and  intelligence,  or  even. a good  un- 
derstanding of  the  principles  in- 
volved, aren’t  enough.  It’s  like  skat- 
ing on  frictionless  ice,  trying  to  cut 
a figure  eight  against  a strong  head 
wind.  Without  Erin,  I wouldn’t  be 
here.” 

They  accepted  the  fact,  and  Erin 
went  on.  “Two  men,  to  my  knowl- 
edge, spent  the  time  and  effort  to 
acquire  the  basic  groundwork — 
Gregory  Stewart  and  myself.  Even 
though  he  crashed,  killing  two  of  his 
men,  he  demonstrated  his  ability  to 
hold  a top-heavy  ship  on  its  course 
under  the  most  trying  conditions.  To 
some  extent,  I have  proved  my  own 
ability.  But  Stewart  has  no  ship, 
and  I have  no  pilot.  Mars  will  have 
to  wait  until  one  of  my  own  men  can 
be  given  adequate  preparation.” 

The  spokesman  tapped  his  pencil 

AST— 3 


against  a pad  of  paper  and  consid- 
ered. “But,  since  each  of  you  lacks 
what  the  other  has,  why  not  let 
Stewart  pilot  your  ship?  Apparently 
he’s  willing  to  give  up  his  interests 
here  and  try  for  some  other  planet.” 

“Because  he  doesn’t  consider  my 
ship  safe.”  Erin  knew  that  it  might 
prove  detrimental  to  their  accept- 
ance of  his  design,  but  that  couldn’t 
be  helped.  “Stewart  and  I have  al- 
ways been  rivals,  less  even  in  fact 
than  in  ideas.  Now  that  his  own 
ship  proved  faulty,  he'd  hardly  be 
willing  to  risk  one  in  which  he  has 
no  faith.” 

. A broad  man  in  the  background 
stirred  uneasily,  drawing  his  hat  far- 
ther down  over  his  face,  which  was 
buried  in  his  collar.  “Have  you 
asked  him?”  he  demanded  in  a muf- 
fled voice. 

“No.”  It  had  never  occurred  to 
Erin  to  do  so.  "If  you  insist.  I’ll 
call  lpm,  but  there  can  be  only  one 
answer.” 

The  heavy  man  stood  up,  throw- 
ing back  his  hat  and  collar.  "You 
might  consult  me  before  quoting  my 
opinions,  Erin,”  Gregory  Stewart 
stated.  “Even  a fool  sometimes  has 
doubts  of  his  own  wisdom.”  The 
eyes  of  those  in  the  room  riveted  on 
him,  but  he  swung  to  his  son,  who 
was  staring  harder  than  the  others. 

“Will  the  Santa  Maria  get  to 
Mars?”  he  asked. 

Jack  nodded  positively.  “It  will 
get  there,  and  back.  I’m  more  than 
willing  to  stake  my  life  on  that.  But 
you — 

“Good.  I’ll  take  your  word  for 
it,  Jack,  with  the  test  flight  to  back 
it  up.  How  about  it,  Erin?”  He 
swung  to  his  rival,  some  of  the  old 
arrogance  in  his  voice.  "Maybe  I’d 
be  glory-hogging,  but  I understand 
you’re  in  the  market  for  a pilot.  Like 
to  see  my  letters  of  reference?” 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Strength  flowed  back  into  Erin’s 
legs,  and  he  came  to  his  feet  with  a 
smile,  his  hand  outstretched.  “I 
think  you’ll  prove  entirely  satisfac- 
tory, Greg.”  It  had  been  too  sud- 
den for  any  of  them  to  realize  fully, 
but  one  oPthe  photographers  sensed 
the  dramatic,  and  his  flash  bulb 
flared  whitely.  The  others  were  not 
slow  in  following  suit. 

“When?”  a reporter  asked.  “Ex- 
pect to  be  ready  in  the  near  fu- 
ture?” 

“Why  not  now?  The  time’s  about 
right,  and  my  affairs  are  in  order. 
Is  everything  ready  here?”  Judging 
from  their  looks  that  it  was,  Stewart 
took  over  authority  with  the  ease  of 
old  habit.  “All  right,  who’s  com- 
ing? A woman?  How  about  you, 
Jack?” 

Jack’s  voice  was  brisk,  but  the 
cold  had  thawed  from  it.  “Count 
me  in,  dad.  I’m  amateur  copilot.” 
“Me,  I think  I go,  too,”  Dutch 
Bauer  decided.  “Maybe  then  I can 
build  better  when  I come  back.” 
Erin  counted  them,  and  rechecked. 
“But  that’s  nine,”  he  demurred. 
“The  ship  is  designed  for  eight.” 
Tom  Shaw  corrected  him.  “It’s 
only  eight,  Erin.  I’ve  decided  to  let 
Jimmy  carry  on  the  family  tradition. 
Shall  we  stay  here  and  watch  them 
take  off?” 

There  was  a mad  rush  for  the  few 
personal  belongings  that  were  to.  go, 
and  a chorus  of  hasty  good-bys. 
Then  they  were  gone,  the  reporters 
with  them,  and  the  two  men  stood 
quietly  studying  each,  other.  Erin 
smiled  at  his  foreman,  an  unexpected 
mist  in  his  eyes.  “Thanks,  Tom. 
You  needn’t  have  done  that.” 

“One  in  the  family’s  enough.  Be- 
sides, Dutch  wanted  to  go.”  His 
voice  was  gruff  as  he  steadied  Erin 
to  the  door  and  stood  looking  out 
at  the  mob  around  the  spaceship. 


The  reporters  were  busy,  getting  last 
words,  taking  pictures,  and  the  Chi- 
nese laborers  were  clustered  around 
Wah,  saying  their  own  adieus.  Then 
Greg’s  heavy  roar  came  up,  and  they 
tumbled  back  away  from  the  ship, 
while  the  men  w'ere  to  go  filed  in. 
The  great  port  closed  slowly  and 
the  first  faint  trial  jets  blasted  out. 

Confidence  seemed  to  flow  into  the 
tubes,  and  they  whistled  and  bel- 
lowed happily,  twisting  the  ship  and 
sending  her  out  over  the  water  in 
a moon-silvered  path.  Erin  saw  for 
the  first  time  the  fierce  power  that 
lay  in  her  as  she  dropped  all  normal 
bounds  and  dove  forward  in  a head- 
long rush.  Stewart  was  lifting  her 
rather  soon,  but  she  took  it,  and  w-as 
off. 

They  followed  the  faint  streak  she 
made  in  the  air  until  it  was  invisible, 
and  a hum  from  the  speaker  sent 
Shaw  to  the  radio.  Greg’s  voice  came 
through.  “Sweet  ship,  Erin,  if  you 
hear  me.  I’ll  send  you  a copy  of 
‘Gunga  Dhin’  from  Mars.  Be  see- 
ing you.” 

Erin  stayed  in  the  door,  watching 
the  stars  that  looked  down  from  the 
point,  where  the  Santa  Maria  had 
vanished.  “Tom,”  he  said  at  last, 
“I  wish  you’d  take  my  Bible  and 
turn  to  the  last  chapter  of  Deuter- 
onomy. You’ll  know  what  I mean.” 

A minute  later  Shaw’s  precise 
reading  voice  reached  him.  “ ‘And 
the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  This  is 
the  land  which  I sware  unto  Abra- 
ham, unto  Isaac,  and  unto  Jacob, 
saying,  I will  give  it  unto  thy  seed: 
I have  caused  thee  to  see . it  with 
thine  eyes,  but  thou  shalt  not  go 
over  thither.’  ” 

“At  least  I have  seen  it,  Tom; 
the  stars  look  different  up  there.” 
Erin  took  one  final  look  and  turned 
back  into  the  room.  “Until  the  re- 
porters come  back  here,  how  about 
a game  of  rummy?” 


67 


fitnotzvous 


By  John  Berryman 


A properly  run  search-curve  will  find  anything — even  in 
space — with  one  exception:  a man  who's  hunting  for  you! 

Illustrated  by  F.  Kramer 

Bo  Riggs  came  to  a halt  as  he  call  in  answer  to  the  sharp  rap  of  his 
reached  the  major’s  door.  He  knuckles.  Bo  stepped  into  the  office 
squared  his  broad  shoulders  and  took  and  saluted  with  an  audible  snap, 
another  reef  in  his  firm  chin.  “Captain  Riggs,  sir,  reporting  for 

“Come!”  he  heard  Major  Hawley  instruction,”  he  clipped  out. 


38 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


“Oh,  hello,  Bo,”  Hawley  said  in- 
formally, shifting  his  pipe  with  a 
genial  smile.  “How’re  things  go- 
ing?” 

“Fine,  prof,”  Bo  grinned  at  his 
erstwhile  professor.  “We’ve  been 
having  a bang-up  time  on  the  Bear.” 

Hawley  nodded.  “Yes,”  he  said, 
his  black  eyes  twinkling,  “I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you  about  the  Little 
Bear.  Beckett’s  wife  is  ill  and  I’m 
sending  him  back  in.  You’ll  be  in 
command  until  further  notice.  Think 
you  can  handle  it?” 

Bo’s  grin  spread  half  across  his 
face.  “Yes,  sir!”  he  exclaimed.  “I’ll 
do  my  best,  sir!” 

“No  doubt,”  Hawley  said  dryly. 
“There’s  a slight  shift  in  your  ship’s 
schedule.  Instead  of  returning  here 
to  Ursine  after  your  survey  of  F634, 
the  Bear  is  to  meet  me  and  continue 
on  to  F635  after  replenishing  its  oxy- 
gen from  the  Vodalo.” 

“Meet  you,  sir?”  Bo  asked. 

“Yes.  I’m  taking  the  Vodalo  out 
with  a party  of  astronomers  to  hunt 
for  the  radio-active  comet  Pitzdorf, 
reported  in  the  system  of  FI  18.  By 
a rendezvous  with  the  Vodalo  you’ll 
save  yourself  a trip  back  in  for  oxy- 
gen. The  survey  dispatcher  is  work- 
ing out  the  rendezvous  co-ordinates 
now.” 

Bo  nodded  his  understanding. 
“Will  the  dispatcher  have  the  proba- 
ble position  of  the  comet,  sir?”  he 
inquired. 

Hawley’s  friendly  smile  vanished, 
to  be  replaced  by  a scowl.  “The 
comet?”  he  demanded.  “Why  do 
you  want  to  know  where  that  is?” 

Bo’s  stomach  turned  a flipflop  as 
Hawley  glared  at  him  from  beneath 
his  heavy  brows.  What  had  he  said 
now? 

He  swallowed  before  he  spoke. 
“Why,  just  in  case  you  didn’t  show 
up,  sir.  I’d  like  to  know  which  way 
to  go  after  you.” 


Every  trace  of  pleasantness  disap- 
peared from  the  major’s  face. 
“Riggs,”  he  snapped  at  the  hapless 
captain,  “sometimes  you  talk  like  a 
jackass.  Now  get  out!” 

The  miserable  captain  saluted  me- 
chanically, at  a loss  for  words.  A 
sharp  repetition  of  the  order  made 
him  spin  on  his  heel  and  leave  the 
major’s  office.  Too  many  times  a 
friendly  interview  had  ended  thus 
for  Bo  to  be  taken  completely  by 
surprise.  But,  as  always,  the  root  of 
the  major’s  ire  escaped  him. 

It  hadn’t  been  a very  satisfactory 
way  to  get  his  first  command,  Bo  re- 
flected in  the  following  days,  while 
the  Little  Bear  and  her  crew  of  ten 
fled  through  space.  Still,  hardly  any 
conversation  with  the  major  ended 
very  satisfactorily. 

The  first  vague  concern  he  had 
felt  over  the  scene  faded  from 
memory  as  the  thrill  of  dropping 
down  through  halogen-laden  atmos- 
pheres to  each  virgin  planet  flooded 
over  him.  With  Bo’s  skilled  hands 
at  the  controls  the  Little  Bear  vis- 
ited the  eight  planets  of  F634,  now 
renamed  Wilma,  in  sentimental  re- 
gard for  Beckett’s  wife.  Mere  fig- 
ures now,  in  the  Bear’s  files  were 
their  orbits,  diameters,  gravities, 
masses.  Each  body  had  been  vis- 
ited, surveyed,  recorded. 

The  day  had  come  when  Bo  gave 
the  order  to  blast  free  of  Wilma  I, 
the  innermost,  stewing,  chlorinated 
planet  of  that  green  Sun.  Farther 
still  toward  the  fathomless  edge  of 
the  Galaxy  he  drove  the  Bear,  to- 
ward the  rendezvous  with  Hawley 
and  the  Vodalo. 

Now  they  were  there.  They  had 
arrived  at  that  trackless  crossroads 
in  space,  a million  parsecs  from  any 
place  a man  could  dare  call  home,  a 
million  parsecs  from  so  much  as  a 
liter  of  free  oxygen.  Until  her  own 


RENDEZVOUS 


S9 


stores  of  the  precious  element  were 
replenished,  the  Bear  could  not  con- 
tinue. on  the  task  of  cataloguing 
which  the  Patrol  had  outlined  for  it. 

The  Bear  had  made  the  rendez- 
vous all  right,  but  where  was  Haw- 
ley? Where  was  Hawley  and  the 
oxygen  he  could  spare  from  the  fat 
bulk  of  the  Vodalo?  It  .was  0:03  of 
the  Bear’s  forty-third  day  out  from 
Ursine  when  Pete  Piatt  had  an- 
nounced that  she  lay  motionless  with 
reference  to  the  drift  of  the  Galactic 
rim  in  those  regions  of  space.  Three 
minutes  out,  Bo  had  thought;  not 
bad  for  a beginner! 

But  Willoughby,  fussing  with  the 
radio,  couldn’t  get  a peep  out  of  it. 
Bo  looked  at  him  with  raised  eye- 
brows. 

“What’s  the  matter,  Sam?”  he 
wanted  to  know.  “The  major’s  boat 
kicks  up  enough  fuss  to  jiggle  your 
needle  at  a hundred  thousand  kilos.” 

“That’s  right,  cap,”  Willoughby 
said,  swinging  around  in  his  chair. 
“It  isn’t  just  possible,  now,  is  it,  that 
Philo  Hawley  might  not  be  quite  on 
time?” 

Bo's  face  lengthened.  “If  you’re 
counting  on  that,  Sam,  forget  it. 
Philo  was  never  late  in  his  life.  They 
tell  me  he  even  has  a metronome  on 
his  heart  to  keep  him  on  time.” 

Willoughby  laughed  and  turned 
back  to  his  dials.  “Maybe  he  wasn’t 
generating  just  then,  cap,”  he  sug- 
gested. “After  all,  he  has  to  cut  his 
power  to  listen  for  us,  doesn’t  he?” 

“Yeah,  that’s  right.  0.  K.,  Sam, 
try  him  again.  We’ll  hear  him  a hell 
of  a long  time  before  he  knows  we’re 
around.  The  generators  in  this  row- 
boat aren’t  detectable  a centimeter 
over  twenty-five  thousand  kilos. 
Holler  when  you  get  him.” 

But  Bo  hadn’t  felt  as  unconcerned 
as  he  had  tried  to  sound  to  the  boys 
in  the  control  room.  They  were  a 


good  gang,  all  right,  the  best  crew  a 
guy  could  want  on  his  first  solo;  but, 
hell,  there  wasn’t  any  use  giving 
them  a start.  The  major  late?  It 
was  incredible.  Bo  retired  to  his 
cabin  after  6:00  mess  and  waited. 

The  rest  of  the  crew  of  the  Little 
Bear  waited,  too.  Until  Sam  or 
Jerry  saw  the  telltale  flicker  of  a tell- 
tale needle,  they  would  have  to  sit 
and  wait.  Only  then,  when  they 
knew  the  direction  of  the  big  space- 
ship, could  they  blast  toward  it. 

Bo  had  slung  his  iron-hard  frame 
into  his  bunk  at  12:00  of  the  forty- 
third  day  out.  He  woke  up  after  an 
indeterminate  period.  15:30,  his 
wrist  chronometer  said.  The  deadly 
quiet  of  the  Bear  made  him  restless. 
Without  the  barely  audible,  but 
never-absent  hum  of  the  generators, 
he  was  ill  at  ease. 

Pulling  his  denim  cruise  jumper 
over  pajamas,  he  made  his  way  to 
the  elevator  and  rode  up  to  the  con- 
trol room.  Thank  the  Lord,  the 
gravitic  compensator  fields  kept  ter- 
restrial gravity  even  when  the  Bear 
wasn’t  accelerating. 

Jerry  North  was  fiddling  aimlessly 
with  the  radio  detector  when  Bo 
stepped  out  of  the  lift.  “Hi  ya,  cap,” 
he  grunted,  spreading  his  finger  in  a 
blase  gesture  of  greeting.  “Cancha 
sleep?” 

“Stuff  your  jets,”  Bo  told  him 
grumpily,  slumping  into  the  swivel 
chair  at  the  control  board.  “Where’s 
Fletcher?” 

“Fletch  got  hungry,  cap,”  Jerry 
grinned  at  him.  “I  think  he’s  raid- 
ing Cooky’s  pantry.” 

“Cooky’ll  bash  him  with  a cleaver 
some  dogwatch,”  Bo  predicted  for 
the  hundredth  time.  “I  wonder  how 
11111113  Beckett  is.” 

“Yeah,  I wonder.  I wonder  how 
Hawley’s  making  out,  too.” 

“Not  a peep,  eh?” 


40 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


“Not  a wiggle.  Listen,  Bo,  that 
guy’s  lost.  Somebody  oughta  find 
him.” 

, “Sure  we  aren’t  the  guys  who’re 
lost,  Jerry?” 

Jerry  regarded  the  captain  for  sev- 
eral seconds  of  silence.  “What  do 
you  think,  cap?” 

Bo  shook  his  head.  “I  would  have 
sworn  that  we  weren’t  a thousand 
kilometers  from  that  damned  rendez- 
vous, Jerry.  Hell,  I've  computed 
and  navigated  problems  ten  times  as 
tough  as  this  in  maneuvers,  and  split 
the  center — ” 

“This  ain’t  maneuvers,  cap,”  Jerry 
inserted  softly. 

Bo  blinked.  “Yeah.” 

They  heabd  the  lift  whine  away, 
then  come  back  and  deposit  Fletcher, 
Bo's  mate.  “Hi,  cap,”  he  said  in  sur- 
prise. “Snooping  around  after  hours, 
eh?  Spying  on  the  dogwatch,  eh?  A 
fine  way  for  a captain  to  treat  his 
first  crew!” 

Riggs  laughed  a little.  “I  thought 
I’d  catch  you  A.  W.  0.  L.,  Fletch,” 
he  chuckled.  “You  snuek  out  for  a 
little  walk,  didn’t  you?” 

“Yep!”  he  said  emphatically.  “All 
around  Cooky’s  pantry.” 

“He’ll  bash  your  head  in  with  a 
cleaver  some  day,”  Bo  and  Jerry  said 
in  weary  unison,  looking  at  each 
other  from  where  they  lazed  in  the 
depths  of  their  padded  chairs. 

“Yeah,  that’s  what  he  said  when 
he  swallowed  all  the  chicken  he  had 
in,his  puss,”  Fletcher  laughed.  “No 
wonder  the  guy’s  so  fat.  He  has  to 
go  on  a diet  every  six  months  to 
make  the  weight,  the  dope!”  The 
other  two  laughed  a little,  and  then 
the  control  room  stilled  as  Fletcher 
found  a seat  behind  the  silent  cal- 
culator. 

“Nothing  yet?”  he  said  at  last. 
Jerry  shook  his  head.  “That’s  not 
so  good,  cap,”  he  offered. 


It  was  Bo’s  turn  to  shake  his  head. 
“Nothing  to  worry  about,  Fletch. 
He’ll  turn  up.  You’ve  been  generat- 
ing from  time  to  time,  haven’t  you?” 
“Yep.  Every  little  while  I blast 
her  around,  thirty  seconds  this  way, 
thirty  seconds  that.  But  what  the 
hell,  we’ll  hear  him  before  he  hears 
us.” 

“Yeah,  maybe,”  Bo  replied.  “I 
wish  I could  be  sure  this  wasn’t  one 
of  his  little  tricks.  He’s  the  damned- 
est guy  in  the  Universe  to  try  to 
make  you  look  silly.  If  he  didn’t 
have  that  gang  of  astronomers  in 
tow,  I’d  bet  that’s  the  score.” 

“Maybe  they  found  that  comet 
right  off,”  Jerry  suggested.  “He 
may  have  dumped  the  wise  men  and 
back-tracked  it  here  as  fast  as  he 
could  leg  it.  Maybe  he’s  sitting  a 
hundred  kilos  away  and  watching 
what  you’re  up  to.” 

Bo  shook  his  head  savagely. 
“Damn  that  guy!”  he  swore.  “If  I 
didn’t  think  there  was  a chance  that 
he  was  up  to  some  monkey  business 
like  that,  I’d  be  looking  for  him  this 
minute.  We  can’t  sit  here  forever. 
We’ll  smother.” 

Jerry  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
“Yeah,  cap,”  he  said  slowly.  “What 
about  that?  How  long  can  we  wait?” 
Bo  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
him  in  silence.  “Oh,  maybe  ten 
days,”  he  opinioned  at  length.  “We 
had  oxygen  for  fifty  days,  and  this 
is  pretty  near  the  end  of  the  forty- 
third.  We  could  stretch  it  a little, 
I suppose.  Maybe  two,  three  days. 
I don’t  know.” 

Fletcher  was  holding  an  unlighted 
cigarette  in  his  fingers.  He  laid  it 
down  very  deliberately  on  the  cal- 
culator. “Maybe  I don’t  light  up, 
cap,”  he  hinted  softly. 

“Oh,  don’t  be  silly,”  Bo  snapped 
a little  heatedly.  “We’ll  pick  him 
up  in  a few  hours.  Go  on,  smoke 
all  you  want  to.” 


RENDEZVOUS 


41 


Fletcher  let  the  cigarette  lay.  His 
act,  although  Bo  gave  no  such  order, 
communicated  itself  to  the  rest  of 
the  crew.  By  the  forty-fifth  day  out 
from  Ursine,  the  weed  had  lost  every 
votary  aboard  the  Little  Bear.  Bo 
could  no  longer  conceal  his  anxiety 
from  the  others.  It  was  an  open  se- 
cret, in  any  event.  He  called  the 
whole  crew  together  at  the  end  of  the 
dogwatch  of  the  forty-sixth  day. 

The  little  control  room  was 
crowded.  Piatt  and  old  Howie 
Bean,  the  computor  and  navigator, 
lolled  over  the  calculator.  Deuel  and 
Fehr,  from  the  engine  room,  stood 
restlessly  at  the  left  with  Cooky, 
while  Edwards,  feeling  as  useless  as 
only  a chemist  can  in  space,  hung 
on  to  the  telescope.  Sam  Wil- 
loughby and  Jerry  North  were  scrap- 
ping for  the  chair  at  the  radio,  and 
Fletcher  perched  contentedly  on  the 
control  panel  behind  Riggs’  swivel. 
Bo  was  talking. 

“As  it  is,  we’ve  overstayed  that 
amount  of  time.  It’s  too  late  now 
to  run  for  it.  We’d  all  smother  be- 
fore we  got  to  Ursine.  If  I had  had 
any  idea  that  the  Vodalo  was  in  trou- 
ble, we  would  have  scrammed  for 
home.  But,  damn  it,  now  we’ve  got 
to  find  Hawley.  He’s  got  our  oxy- 
gen!” 

Only  the  tiny  sounds  of  restless 
moving  greeted  his  announcement. 
Fletcher,  behind  the  captain,  bit  his 
nails  unconsciously. 

Bo  looked  around  the  little  circle 
of  tense  faces.  “Until  we’ve  found 
Hawley,”  he  spoke  tersely,  “no  idle 
talking.  Save  our  air.”-  He  swung 
his  eyes  again.  “Any  suggestions?” 

Deuel  leaned  forward.  “Cap?”  he 
asked. 

“Yeah?” 

“What  about  electrolizing  our  wa- 
ter? We  could  breathe  the  oxygen. 


and  we’ve  got  plenty  of  power.”  The 
faces  of  several  of  the  younger  men 
lighted  up  for  a moment.  The  older 
hands  stood  still. 

Bo  shook  his  head  shortly.  “I’ve 
figured  on  that.  We  get  two  days 
there.  There’s  only  enough  for  fifty 
days  in  the  tanks.  The  rest  we 
make.” 

Deuel  was  not  discouraged.  “What 
about  splitting  up  our  carbon  di- 
oxide?” he  queried.  “We  could — ” 

“We  couldn’t  do  it,  in  the  first 
place,”  Fehr  answered  for  Riggs, 
“and  there  isn’t  enough  to  matter. 

Bo  nodded  curt  agreement.  “Any- 
thing else?”  he  snapped,  feeling  his 
voice  get  tense  in  spite  of  himself. 
This  was  a hell  of  a fix.  No  one  had 
anything  to  offer.  Bo  straightened 
his  back. 

“In  that  case,  since  we  can’t  find 
the  Vodalo  where  it  ought  to  be, 
we’re  going  to  look  where  it  might 
have  been.  Pete,  you  and  Bean  have 
a pretty  good  idea  of  where  Haw- 
ley had  to  go  to  pick  up  that  comet. 
I want  to  scour  space  back  along  his 
route  for  a way,  then  back-track  and 
look  ahead  in  case  he  drifted  on.  Get 
to  work  on  it.  We’ll  have  to  work 
back  in  an  expanding  cone  toward 
his  most  probable  location. 

“The  rest  of  you  guys  take  it  easy. 
No  orders  from  now  on.  Get  all  the 
sleep  you  can  stomach.” 

Most  of  the  crew  left  via  the  lift. 
Jerry  North  stayed  behind  at  the 
radio,  while  Pete  Piatt  and  old  Bean 
bent  over  the  calculator.  Its  whir- 
ring and  clicking  were  the  only 
sounds  in  the  control  room  for  many 
minutes. 

At  last  Piatt  brought  a return  slip 
from  the  machine  to  Bo.  “Here’s  as 
good  as  we  can  give  you,  cap,”  he 
said  softly.  “We’ll  have  to  do  one 
hell  of  a lot  of  scouring.” 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


4* 

Bo  looked  at  the  co-ordinates  that 
the  machine  had  printed.  “How 
long  would  it  take  to  get  within  a 
hundred  thousand  kilos  of  every 
point  in  that  cone,  five  hundred  par- 
secs in  each  direction  from  here?”  he 
almost  whispered. 

Piatt  shook  his  head.  “Too  long, 
Bo,”  he  said  gently.  “You’ve  got  to 
do  better  than  that.” 

Bo  looked  up  in  surprise.  “You’ve 
got  to  do  better  than  that,”  he  had 
said.  Hell,  Pete  was  five  years  older 
than  he  was.  He  was  asking  Pete 
for  advice,  not  the  other  way  around 
— or  was  he?  They  were  all  looking 
at  him,  looking  to  him  to  get  them 
out  of  it.  This  was  what  it  meant 
to  have  a command.  He  looked 
from  Pete  to  old  Howie  Bean  to 
Jerry  North.  Their  eyes  were  fixed 
on  him,  standing  out  sharply  against 
their  white  faces. 

Bo  swallowed.  “That’s  the  best 
I can  do  right  now,  Pete,”  he  re- 
plied, struggling  to  keep  his  voice 
calm.  “We  can  cover  one  cone 
pretty  thoroughly,  can’t  we?” 

“Yes,  one  cone.  Either  back  to- 
ward where  we  think  Hawley  was,  or 
out  past  there,  if  you  figure  he 
drifted  by  us.” 

“You’ve  got  the  cone  as  narrow 
as  possible,  Pete?” 

“Uh-huh.  If  we  don’t  broaden  the 
locus  of  his  possible  courses  out 
enough,  we  increase  the  chances  of 
missing  him  that  way.  If  we 
broaden  it  too  much,  we  don’t  get 
far  enough  away  from  here,  and  in- 
crease the  chances  of  missing  him 
for  that  reason.  We  worked  out  the 
optimum  angle.” 

Tingling  silence  echoed  off  the 
doming  walls  of  the  control  room. 
Bo  slowly  swung  his  swivel  away 
from  them  and  faced  the  bank  of 
controls.  Back  or  forward?  “We’ll 
go  back,”  he  heard  himself  say  in  a 


voice  that  sounded  faint  and  far 
away.  “If  the  major  got  here  and 
couldn’t  stop,  he’d  be  no  help  to  us, 
anyway.”  He  could  hear  the  three 
expel  their  breaths. 

Swinging  back  with  sudden  deter- 
mination to  face  them,  he  cracked 
off  a stream  of  orders.  “Pete,  get  to 
work  on  our  course.  We’re  blasting 
this  crock  in  a double  inverse  spiral 
back  toward  the  comet  until  we  meet 
Hawley.  Jerry,  tell  Fehr  to  get  busy 
yanking  the  oxy  out  of  our  water. 
Give  us  a boost  on  CO2 — two  per- 
cent’s enough  for  now.  On  the  ball.” 

Jerry  jumped  up  from  the  radio, 
the  whine  of  the  departing  lift  play- 
ing a thin  overtone  to  the  hum  of 
the  calculator  under  Pete’s  fingers. 
Bo  turned  to  the  rocket  switches.  A 
flick  of  his  fingers  sounded  the  “Sta- 
tions” gong  throughout  the  ship,  and 
it  was  only  an  instant  until  every 
man  on  duty  had  his  earphone  and 
larynx  mike  on. 

“Get  that  drive  generator  hot!” 
Bo  snapped  out,  knowing  Fehr  had 
already  done  it. 

The  engineer’s  “White  hot,  Bo!” 
sounded  quickly  in  his  ear. 

“Let  me  have  it,  Pete!”  Bo’s  voice 
cracked  crisply.  His  flying  fingers 
entered  the  first  course  co-ordinates 
on  the  board.  Without  the  slightest 
sensation  of  movement  the  Little 
Bear  leaped  away  from  her  barren 
rendezvous  at  an  acceleration  which 
would  have  pulverized  even  the 
plates  and  girders  of  her  tightly 
woven  hull  had  not  the  inertia 
screens  produced  by  her  drive  gen- 
erators subtly  warped  the  surround- 
ing space  to  let  her  pass  through  at 
speeds  which  made  the  velocity  of 
light  seem  a virtual  standstill. 

Thus  the  Little  Bear’s  forty-sev- 
enth day  out  from  Ursine  saw  her 
jerking  like  a thing  possessed  away 


RENDEZVOUS 


43 


from  that  point  in  space  where  she 
had  lain  motionless  for  four  days. 
Bit  by  bit  her  changes  in  course  oc- 
curred less  frequently  as  the  cone  of 
most  probable  locations  of  the  miss- 
ing Vodalo  broadened. 

In  four-hour  shifts  Jerry  and  Sam 
Willoughby  spelled  each  other  at  the 
radio,  cutting  out  the  Bears . drive 
generator  in  frequent  attempts  to 
detect  radiation  produced  by  the 
Vodalo  s power  plant.  Not  the  tini- 
est flicker  of  their  instruments  re- 
warded them. 

For  four  days  the  Bear  drove  back 
along  Hawley’s  supposed  course, 
moving  more  and  more  slowly  from 
the  rendezvous  position.  .Bo,  sitting 
wearily  at  the.  board,  would  trust  no 
one  to  set  the  courses  but  himself. 
If  he  had  used  every  fiber  in  his  mind 
in  bringing  the  Bear  exactly  to  the 
rendezvous  point,  he  checked  and 
directed  their  probing  course  with  his 
very  soul.  Important  it  had  been 
that  the  Bear  should  have  arrived  ;tt 
that  rendezvous,  but  vital  was  it  that 
she  be  able  to  return  exactly  to  that 
point  after  a thousand  changes  of 
course. 

Fletcher  was  giving  Jerry  a rest 
at  the  radio,  poring  over  the  delicate 
detector  dials,  as  though  trying  to 
force  the  needles  to  quiver  by  the 
very  fire  of  his  gaze.  Bean  automati- 
cally ran  off  the  next  course  change. 

Fletcher  exhaled  a long-contained 
breath  and  sagged  back  from  the  de- 
tector panel.  “Nuts,”  he  half 
growled,  “this  is  futile.”  No  one  dis- 
agreed. “Listen,”  he  said  to  nobody 
in  particular,  “just  suppose  Hawley 
got  the  Vodalo  fixed  up  and  has  been 
blasting  toward  the  rendezvous  while 
we  were  ransacking  this  hypothetical 
cone.  Hell,  he  might  have  sailed 
right  by  us.  Look  here.  Bo,”  he  de- 
manded, addressing  the  captain  di- 
rectly, “this  damned  cone  is  almost 


a parsec  in  diameter  now.  For.  the 
love  of  Pete,  we  might  look  the  rest 
of  our  lives  and  never  find  him.” 

Bo  swung  around  to  face  his  mate, 
his  crisp  blond  hair  a snarl  about  his 
brows.  He  said  nothing. 

Bean,  his  computation  completed, 
looked  up  from  the  calculator  as  he 
switched  it  off.  “Ah,  Fletch,”  he 
said  in  his  grave,  old  voice,  “just 
suppose  he  did  do  that.  He  may 
have  pulled  in  just  a few  hours  after 
we  pulled  out.  Think  of  that.  What 
would  he  do  then?”  His  wrinkled 
face  crackled  into  a devilish  grin. 
“Why,  he'd  start  to  look  for  11s.  The 
major’s  no  dumbbell,  Fletch;  he’d 
figure  we  were  looking  for  him,  so 
he’d  look  for  us  where  he  thought 
we  were,  right?” 

Fletcher  sucked  air  between  his 
teeth.  “Jeepers!”  he  said  foolishly. 
“Suppose  he  decided  we  took  the 
other  cone!” 

Bean  laughed  at  him. 

“What’s  so  funny.  Bean?”  Fletcher 
snapped  irritably. 

“The  other  cone!”  the  navigator 
laughed  dryly.  “Why,  hell,  Fletcher, 
what  if  he  was  in  this  cone,  just  a 
thousandth  of  a parsec  away?  We’d 
never  know  it.  We  might  pass 
through  the  place  he’d  just  been,  or 
the  place  he  was  going  to  be,  a hun- 
dred times,  and  never  catch  enough 
of  his  radiation  to  detect.  Oh,  I 
think  we  can  forget  about  that  other 
cone.” 

Fletcher’s  mouth  was  slowly  sag- 
ging open.  “Hey!”  His  eyes  were 
widening  as  he  looked  at  the  silent, 
motionless  captain.  “Hey,  Bo! 
Think  about  that!  If  he’s  out  look- 
ing for  41s,  why,  hell,  we’ll  never  get 
together  except  by  the  most  im- 
probable accident  that  ever  hap- 
pened!” 

Bo  looked  at  him,  looked  through 


44 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


him.  “I  remember  one  of  old 
Sprague’s  lectures  at  the  Academy,” 
he  said  deliberately.  Sprague  had 
introduced  them  into  calculus.  “He 
was  talking  about  indeterminate  so- 
lutions, and  he  had  a neat  little  story. 
He  said  if  two  guys  were  in  a de- 
partment store,  and  they  wanted  to 
get  together,  there  was  absolutely  no 
way  of  guaranteeing  they  would  ever 
meet  unless  one  of  them  stood  still. 
If  they  both  looked,  they  might  cir- 
culate till  the  end  of  time  and  never 
see  each  other.”  He  turned  his  head 
over  to  Bean.  “That’s  what  you 
mean,  isn’t  it,  Howie?” 

“Yes,  sir,”  the  old  man  said  re- 
spectfully. “But,  please,  sir,  I wasn’t 
criticizing  you,  sir!” 

“You  should  be,  Bean,”  Bo  said 
bitterly.  “But  what  the  hell  could 
we  do?  How  do  we  know  that  Haw- 
ley can  fix  up  the  Vodalo,  or  whether 
there  is  any  Vodalo  any  more?”  He 
looked  at  the  worn  spot  in  the  com- 
position deck  beneath  his  feet.  “The 
best  we  can  do  is  to  keep  on  looking 
out  here.  We’ve  staked  everything 
on  this  cone,  and  we’ve  got  to  keep 
betting.” 

Fletcher  was  suddenly  on  his  feet. 
“Listen,  Bo,”  he  was  chattering,  “do 
something,  for  the  love  of  Pete,  do 
something!  You  aren’t  going  to  just 
sit  here  and  keep  on  looking  when 
Hawley  may  be  looking  for  us,  are 
you?”  His  syllables  became  tense, 
choked.  “What  d’ya  expect  us  to 
do?  Find  Hawley  when  all  we  know 
is  that  he’s  anywhere  inside  a billion 
billion  billion  cubic  kilos?”  He  had 
advanced  toward  the  still-seated 
Riggs,  his  fists  clenched  tightly  at 
his  sides,  weaving  a little  on  his  feet, 
like  a fighter  about  to  spring  upon 
an  opponent. 

Bean  stepped  softly  down  from  the 
stool  at  the  calculator  and  around 
behind  Fletcher.  “Take  it  easy, 


Fletch,”  he  softly  advised.  “Here, 
have  a drink.” 

Fletcher  spun  to  face  him  at  the 
water  cooler.  “Take  it  easy,  eh?” 
he  shrilled.  “Damn  it,  you  old  crow, 
take  it  easy  when  we’re  going  to 
smother!  Do  you  hear  me? 
Smother!”  He  grasped  Bean’s 
jumper  in  his  white  fist,  pulling  the 
navigator’s  lined  face  up  to  his. 
“What’re  you  gonna  do  when  there 
ain’t  any  more  air?”  he  ground  out 
between  his  teeth.  “When  you  start 
to  gag  and  get  dizzy,  you  dried  up 
old  fool!” 

Riggs  cut  him  short.  “Shut  up, 
Fletcher!”  he  snapped  from  his  seat. 
“Shut  up,  I tell  you!  You’ve  had 
enough.  Go  below.” 

For  a moment  Fletcher  appeared 
to  waver  between  springing  upon 
his  commander  and  walking  toward 
the  lift.  Bean  supplied  him  with  his 
decision  by  gently  pulling  his  elbow. 
Once  the  mate  was  faced  away  from 
the  captain,  he  stepped  docilely 
enough  to  the  lift  and  dropped  down 
to  the  bunk  room  below. 

Bean  faced  Bo  solemnly.  “They’re 
getting  pretty  anxious,  cap,”  he  said. 
“They’re  looking  to  you.” 

Bo  got  up.  “You  don’t  need  to 
tell  me,  Bean,”  he  replied  to  the 
older  man.  “Thanks  for  cooling 
Fletcher  off.” 

“Yes,  sir.  Sorry  I got  him  going 
like  that.” 

“That’s  all  right.  Watch  things 
while  I go  below,”  Bo  told  him 
wearily,  his  face  drawn  and  old.  As 
he  waited  for  the  lift  to  rise  in  an- 
swer to  his  signal,  his  shoulders 
slumped  and  his  head  dropped  to- 
ward his  chest.  Bean’s  sharp  old 
eyes  regarded  him  anxiously. 

In  the  - engine  room  Fehr  and 
Deuel  were  standing  impotently  over 
the  Bear’s  little  compressor,  watch- 


RENDEZVOUS 


45 


ing  it  chug  quietly.  They  looked  up 
as  Bo  left  the  lift  and  walked  over 
toward  them.  Both  nodded  silently 
and  returned  their  gaze  to  the  com- 
pressor. 

“How  much  will  there  be?”  Bo 
asked  in  a low  voice. 

“Fifty  hours,”  Fehr  said  shortly, 
not  raising  his  eyes.  Deuel  was 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  fists. 
His  voice,  pitched  high  with  sup- 
pressed excitement,  broke  the  throb- 
bing of  the  compressor. 

“Fifty  hours!  That’s  only  two 
days!”  He.  swallowed  the  rest  of 
what  he  had  meant  to  say  in  a gulp. 
But  he  could  not  retain  it.  “When 
do  we  start  using  that?”  he  cried. 

Bo  looked  at  Fehr.  “Another 
day,”  Fehr  estimated.  “We  got  an 
extra  day  added  to  the  fifty  by  low 
consumption  this  last  week.”  , 

Deuel’s  heavy  breathing  sounded 
above  the  compressor.  Bo  ex- 
changed glances  with  Fehr  over  the 
engineer’s  bowed  head.  Fehr  still 
had  his  nerve.  Or  was  it  trust  Bo 
saw  there?  He  rode  back  to  the  con- 
trol room. 

Jerry  North  was  flicking  the  se- 
lector switch  around  the  compass  as 
he  tried  all  six  directions  for  field 
strength.  AH  the  same — zero.  Bo 
saw  him  cut  the  Bear’s  drive  genera- 
tors back  in.  This  endless  waiting, 
he  thought,  what  an  ordeal!  It 
would  almost  have  been  better  if 
they  could  have  felt  the  acceleration 
die  when  Jerry  made  a try,  but,  no, 
the  gravitic  compensators  kept  their 
weight  at  that  constant  one  terres- 
trial gravity,  never  letting  them 
know  by  the  slightest  change  in  sen- 
sation that  they  were  moving  or 
changing  course.  It  was  as  though 
they  were  making  no  effort,  as 
though  they  were  sitting  motionless 
in  the  horrible  nothingness  of  space, 
waiting,  waiting.  Even  the  stars 


scarcely  seemed  to  move.  There  was 
no  way  to  realize  their  frenzied  mo- 
tion. 

The  radio  operator  straightened 
up  as  Bo  slumped  wearily  into  his 
swivel.  “Bo,”  he  began,  “we’ve  got 
to  widen  our  reception  area — ” 

“How?”  Bo  interrupted  him,  try- 
ing not  to  sound  hopeless. 

“Well,  this  is  only  a suggestion, 
but,  uh,  couldn’t  we  send  out  the 
lifeboats?  They  could  do  a little 
to — ” 

“What!”  Bo  was  staring  at  him 
incredulously.  “Lifeboats!  That’s 
it!  Hell,  what  does  anybody  do 
when  his  ship  sinks?  Takes  to  the 
boats!”  Bo  was  standing  on  his  feet, 
rocking  excitedly  on  his  toes.  “Hey, 
Jerry,  what  a brainstorm!” 

Jerry  looked  at  him  through  nar- 
rowed, suspicious  eyes.  “Take  it 
easy,  cap,”  he  said  warily.  “If  we 
can’t  get  to  any  air  in  the  Bear,  a 
fat  chance  we’ll  have  in  a lifeboat!” 

Bo  acted  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  him.  Once  again  the  “Sta- 
tions” gong  was  sounding  in  every 
compartment  of  the  Little  Bear. 
Pressing  his  mike  against  his  throat. 
Bo  was  speaking  quickly,  furiously. 
“Get  up  here,  everybody!  On  the 
double!” 

Jerry  could  hear  the  excited  bab- 
ble of  voices  in  his  earphone  as  ev- 
erybody below  wanted  to  know 
whether  the  radio  had  picked  up 
Hawley.  “No,  no,”  Bo  shouted,  “we 
haven’t  found  him,  but  I’ll  bet 
plenty  I know  where  he  is!” 

Within  a minute  the  lift  had 
brought  the  other  eight  to  join  Jerry 
in  the  control  room.  Bo  was  pacing 
back  and  forth  in  his  excitement. 
When  the  crew  had  quieted  down, 
he  faced  them. 

“This  is  no  time  to  remember  rank, 
so  forget  I’m  the  captain  for  a 


46 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


while,”  he  began.  Most  of  the  men 
grinned  a little.  It  was  pretty  hard 
to  think  of  Bo  as  a captain,  in  a 
sense.  Discipline  wasn’t  necessary 
on  a rowboat  like  the  Little  Bear. 
No,  he  was  a different  kind  of  cap- 
tain, one  with  a rank  they  couldn’t 
forget. 

“We’re  all  in  this,”  Bo  went  on 
seriously.  “We  should  all  have  a 
part  in  the  decision.”  He  looked 
down  at  the  deck  for  a moment. 

“It  isn’t  so  very  long  ago,”  Bo 
began  again,  “that  somebody  said 
to  me,  ‘The  trouble  with  you,  Riggs, 
is  that  you’re  too  damned  naive.’  I 
think  the  major  was  right,  even  if 
he  was  referring  to  a put-up  job.” 
He  grinned  a little  at  the  recollec- 
tion in  spite  of  himself.  “Maybe  I’ve 
been  too  damned  naive  again.  What 
are  we  looking  for,  anyway?” 

His  unexpected,  appearently  ir- 
relevant question  made  the  crew 
look  from  face  to  face. 

“All  right!”  he  snapped  at  them. 
“What  are  we  looking  for?  Speak 
up,  somebody,  speak  up!” 

“For  Hawley,”  somebody  said. 

“For  Hawley!”  Bo  rapped  'with 
rich  sarcasm.  “The  hell  we  are. 
We’re  looking  for  the  Vodalo!”  He 
glared  at  them. 

“For  Pete’s  sake,”  Fehr  ventured, 
“that’s  the  same  thing.  Go  where 
Hawley  is,  there’s  the  Vodalo.  Same 
thing.” 

“Of  course  it’s  the  same,  Fehr,” 
Bo  replied  saccharinly,  “but,  damn 
it  all,  we  haven’t  been  looking  for 
the  Vodalo !” 

The  crew  stood  quite  silent,  eying 
their  raging  captain  uncertainly. 
Bean  was  moving  slowly  forward. 

“Hold  it,  Bean,”  Bo  told  him,  rais- 
ing a restraining  palm.  “I  said  we 
haven’t  been  looking  for  the  Vodalo, 
and  I meant  it!  We’ve  been  scour- 
ing this  whole  damned  corner  of  the 
Galaxy,  looking  for  radiation  from 


the  ship’s  generators.  We  don’t 
want  the  radiation;  we  want  the 
ship!” 

Jerry’s  eyes  flew  open.  His 
pointed  finger  jabbed  toward  Bo  as 
he  vainly  tried  to  make  his  excited 
vocal  cords  respond. 

“Sure,  Jerry!”  Bo  was  shouting. 
“Sure!  If  Hawley  can’t  generate, 
we’ll  never  find  him!”  He  faced 
them  with  a wild  fire  in  his  eyes. 
“Like  hell  we  won’t! 

“What  happened,  you  dopes,  what 
happened?”  he  demanded.  “Some- 
thing blew  on  the  Vodalo,  it  must 
have,  or  Hawley  would  have  met  us. 
It  must  have  been  the  generator,  or, 
anyway,  if  it  wasn’t  we’ll  never  see 
him  again.  So  maybe  he  drifts  right 
past  the  rendezvous.  Can’t  stop. 
No  power.” 

Bean  stepped  toward  him.  His 
voice  was  deep  and  terrible.  “You 
mean  we  picked  the  wrong  cone!” 
He  stood  rigidly  for  a moment  in 
front  of  the  captain,  his  distended 
nostrils  dragging  the  air.  In  a sec- 
ond of  suspended  time  Bo  could  see 
every  man,  see  those  drawn  faces, 
that  look  of  final  despair,  of  recog- 
nized defeat. 

“No!”  his  voice  rang  out.  “No! 
We  didn’t  take  the  wrong  cone  and 
leave  the  right  one!  Why?  Both 
cones  were  wrong!  If  Hawley 
drifted  past  the  rendezvous,  lie  must 
have  left  a lifeboat!  By  all  the  gods, 
he  must  have!” 

The  instant  of  silence  that  pre- 
ceded the  thunderclap  of  shouts  was 
like  a ringing  crack  of  the  detonator 
that  sets  off  an  explosion. 

Bo  held  them  in  check.  “Maybe 
there  isn’t  any  Vodalo,"  he  reminded 
them  soberly;  “maybe  there  isn’t  any 
lifeboat  to  tell  us  where  it  is.  But 
if  Hawley  ever  got  within -a  hundred 
parsecs,  he  could  have  sent,  a boat.” 

Fehr’s  heavy  voice  cut  in  above 
even  Bo’s  exultant  tones.  “If  we 


RENDEZVOUS 


47 


expect  to  get  back  to  the  rendezvous 
before  we  smother,  we’d  better  quit 
kidding  around.” 

The  gang  in  the  control  room 
melted  away.  Moments  later  only 
Fletcher  and  Jerry  North  were  there 
with  Bo. 

“You’ll  want  Pete  or  Bean,  won’t 
you?”  Fletcher  asked  tensely. 

Bo  smiled  at  him,  the  glint  of  vic- 
tory in  his  eyes.  “No,  I won’t.  I 
know  where  I am  to  a thousand  kilos, 
and  if  I can’t  get  back  that  close  to 
the  rendezvous,  I’m  ready  to  shoot 
myself.” 

“If  you  don’t,  you  won’t  have  to,” 
Jerry  suggested. 

Bo  ignored  him  gleefully.  , It  was 
only  seconds  before  his  fingers  had 
elected  the  proper  course  from  the 
calculator  and  entered  it  on  the  con- 
trol board.  He  sat  back. 

“Fifty-one  hours  and  some  min- 
utes,” he  chuckled.  “We  won’t  quite 
smother.” 

“Not  if  lie’s  there,”  Jerry  ad- 
mitted. 

But  was  he  there?  Deep  in  the 
hull  Fehr  slowly  doled  out  their  re- 
maining oxygen,  liberally  dosing  it 
with  carbon  dioxide.  A fast  pulse 
and  respiration  for  a few  hours 
wouldn’t  hurt  that  crew.  And  it’d 
let  them  live  on  a damned  sight  less 
oxy. 


The  sensationless  reversal  was  al- 
most a day  gone.  The  markless  spot 
in  markless  space  where  Bo  thought 
Hawley’s  lifeboat  should  be  was 
creeping  nearer,  more  and  more 
slowly.  Jerry  was  at  the  dials  now, 
crouched  over  as  never  before,  look- 
ing for  that  tiny  flicker  of  power 
that  would  betray  the  lifeboat’s  gen- 
erator. The  lifeboat  they  hoped  ex- 
isted. 

At  12:43  of  their  fifty-third  day 
out  from  Ursine,  Bo  cut  the  switches. 
"Back  home,”  he  announced  tersely. 
Jerry  turned  to  face  him,  a wan  smile 
flickering  over  his  mouth. 

“And  there’s  nobody  there,”  he 
supplied. 

“Nobody?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Then  we  start  looking.  Can  we 
pick  up  a lifeboat  at  five  thousand 
kilos?” 

“I’m  almost  positive  we  can’t. 
Maybe  three  thousand.” 

“Pete,  some  figures  to  fit  that, 
quick!” 

But  before  the  computer  could  so 
much  as  enter  their  co-ordinates  on 
the  board,  Jerry  gasped,  a great, 
belching  gasp. 

“Got  him!” 

Bo  drilled  him  with  his  eyes. 
“Sure?” 

“Positive!  Baby,  we  must  have 


48 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


missed  him  by  about  ten  meters. 
He’s  right  in  our  lap!” 

Bo  slowly  sagged  down  in  his  seat. 
His  eyes  fell  gradually  shut.  They 
had  made  it. 

There  was  no  trick  to  picking  up 
the  lifeboat.  True  to  their  expecta- 
tions, two  members  of  the  Vodalo’s 
crew  were  there,  incoherently  jubi- 
lant. 

Their  simple  story  told  where  the 
Vodalo  could  be  found.  Scant  hours 
later,  as  the  last  of  the  Little  Bear’s 
oxygen  was  splurged  in  an  oxy-drunk 
spree,  they  pulled  alongside  the  drift- 
ing spaceship.  Once  inside,  they 
heard  the  full  tale  from  Hawley. 

“The  whole  thing  was  my  fault, 
Riggs,”  he  said,  smiling  happily.  “A 
couple  of  hundred  parsecs  short  of 
the  rendezvous  the  generator  went 
mildly  on  the  fritz.  Instead  of  drop- 
ping a boat  right  then,  like  a fool  I 
decided  we  could  fix  it.  We  did,  all 
right,  fixed  it  perfectly.  The  whole 
works  blew  out  and  left  us  with  no 
power  but  the  accumulators.  We 
couldn’t  even  launch  the  boats  for 


several  hours.  By  the  time  we 
kicked  one  out,  we  were  well  past 
and  going  at  a pretty  good  clip  yet. 
Our  lifeboat  reached  the  rendezvous 
just  as  you  blasted  out,  wide  open. 
They  even  picked  up  your  radia- 
tion.” 

Bo’s  wide,  joyful  grin  told  every- 
thing about  his  feelings.  “Don’t 
blame  yourself,  sir.  If  I had  stayed 
where  I belonged,  we  would  have 
gotten  together  right  then.  But,  by 
all  the  tailless  comets,  if  it  hadn’t 
been  for  a story  that  old  Sprague  told 
us  at  the  Academy,  we’d  never  have 
made  it!” 

Hawley  looked  at  him  with  a dev- 
ilish twinkle  in  his  snapping  black 
eyes.  “Yes,  I know,”  he  mused. 
“That’s  the  one  about  the  depart- 
ment store,  isn’t  it?” 

“Why,  yes,  sir,  how  did  you 
know?”  Bo  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

“I  told  it  to  him.  That’s  why  I 
told  those  two  in  the  lifeboat  to  stay 
there  until  they  died.  I knew  you’d 
come  back.  There’s  nothing-  really 
wrong  with  you,  Riggs.  You’re  just 
a little  slow,  that’s  all!” 


PROPHECY? 

From  “The  Legion  of  Time,”  by  Jack  Williamson,  Part  I,  May,  1938, 
Astounding  Science-Fiction,  Page  18: 

“Time  don’t  make  no  difference  here.  The  last  man 
on  your  bed  was  the  Austrian,  Erich  van  Arneth.  He 
came  from  the  Isonzo  front,  in  1915.  The  one  in  the 
chink’s  bed  was  the  Frenchman,  Jean  Querard.  He  was 
blown  up  in  the  defense  of  Paris,  in  1940.” 

The  only  other  mention  of  war  of  the  1940s  made  in  the  story  was  a 
similar  passing  reference  to  a Russian  rocket  flier  who  fell  in  the  arctic 
in  1942. 

Our  authority  does  not  disclose  the  course  of  the  ’40  war  beyond  these 
two  points. 


49 


The  fact  that  a story  is  printed  in  a magazine  indicates  that  the  editor 
believed  a majority  of  his  readers  would  find  it  at  least  average  entertain- 
ment, and  that  many  would  find  it  good  stuff.  Occasionally  the  editor  is 
blessed  by  the  receipt  of  something  that  makes  him  go  around  with  a grin 
of  joy  for  days.  A manuscript  comes  in  sometimes  that  is  not  merely  good 
entertainment — it’s  something  that  the  editor  can  know  is  . going  to  take 
hold  of  readers  and  make  ’em  follow  every  pages  of  the  yarn — and  to  blazes 
with  bedtime,  supper  or  going  out  for  that  evening! 

I felt  sure  “Final  Blackout”  was  a yarn  of  that  sort,  and  said  so.  The 
readers — see  “Brass  Tacks” — are  now  saying  so. 

Next  month  starts  another  serial  of  that  sort.  A.  E.  van  Vogt,  because 
of  circumstances  that  tied  him  up,  sent  in  only  the  first  three  of  four  parts — 
and  I was  mad!  The  fourth  part  was  delayed  a week,  and  when  it  arrived — 
the  pile  of  manuscripts  around  got  left  while  I finished  "Sian!” 

It’s  a superman  story — which  tells  you  nothing,  because  there  hasn’t 
been  any  like  it  before.  This  superman  is  a boy — a nine-year-old  boy  that 
a world  of  humans  is  grimly  determined  to  exterminate,  as  they  shot  down 
his  father,  and  as  they  butchered  his  mother  before  his  eyes  in  a city  street. 

That’s  the  first  page  of  the  yarn.  From  that  page  on  it  doesn’t  slow 
its  pace  for  a paragraph — including  the  last! 

Gentlemen,  it’s  a lulu!  The  Editor. 

flnmyTicflL  mmm 

As  “Brass  Tacks”  would  indicate,  “Final  Blackout”  took  first  place. 
One  thing  the  Laboratory  cannot  properly  evaluate  is  the  strength  of  a vote. 
That  is,  a man  who  says  he  thinks  a certain  story  is  the  “best  story  of  the 
year”  still  can  vote  it  first  place  for  the  month  only.  At  any  rate,  the 
record  looks  like  this: 


1. 

Final  Blackout 

L.  Ron  Hubbard 

2. 

The  Roads  Must  Roll! 

Robert  Heinlein 

3. 

Testament  of  Akubii 

Norman  L.  Knight 

4. 

Deputy  Correspondent 

Harl  Vincent 

5. 

Carbon  Eater 

Douglass  Drew 

The  Editor. 


VAULT  Of  THf  BCflST 

By  fl.  L van  Vogf 

They  of  the  other  Universe  couldn't  reach  this  one 
— so  they  made  a robot,  a highly,  horribly  adapt- 
able robot,  to  release  their  prisoned  comrade! 

Illustrated  by  Edd  Cartier 


The  creature  crept.  It  whimpered 
from  fear  and  pain,  a thing,  slobber- 
ing sound  horrible  to  hear.  Shape- 
less, formless  thing’  yet  changing 
shape  and  form  with  every  jerky 
movement. 

It  crept  along  the  corridor  of  the 
space  freighter,  fighting  the  terrible 
urge  of  its  elements  to  take  the  shape 
of  its  surroundings.  A gray  blob  of 
disintegrating  stuff,  it  crept,  it  cas- 
caded, it  rolled,  flowed,  dissolved, 
every  movement  an  agony  of  strug- 
gle against  the  abnormal  need  to  be- 
come a stable  shape. 

Any  shape!  The  hard,  - chilled- 
blue  metal  wall  of  the  Earth-bound 
freighter,  the  thick,  rujbbery  floor. 
The  floor  was  easy  to  fight.  It  wasn’t 
like  the  metal  that  pulled  and  pulled. 
It  would  be  easy  to  become  metal  for 
all  eternity. 

But  something  prevented.  An  im- 
planted purpose.  A purpose  th.at 
drummed  from  electron  to  electron, 
vibrated  from  atom  to  atom  with  an 
unvarying  intensity  that  was  like  a 
special  pain:  Find  the  greatest 

mathematical  mind  in  the  Solar 
System,  and  bring  it  to  the  vault  of 
the  Martian  ultimate  metal.  The 
Great  One  must  be  freed!  The  prime 
number  time  lock  must  be  opened! 

That  was  the  purpose  that 
hummed  with  unrelenting  agony 
through  its  elements.  That  was  the 
thought  that  had  been  seared  into 


its  fundamental  consciousness  by  the 
great  and  evil  minds  that  had 
created  it. 

There  was  movement  at  the  far 
end  of  the  corridor.  A door  opened. 
Footsteps  sounded.  A man  whistling 
to  himself.  With  a metallic  hiss,  al- 
most a sigh,  the  creature  dissolved, 
looking  momentarily  like  diluted 
mercury.  Then  it  turned  brown  like 
the  floor.  It  became  the  floor,  a 
slightly  thicker  stretch  of  dark- 
brown  rubber  spread  out  for  yards. 

It  was  ecstasy  just  to  lie  there,  to 
be  flat  and  to  have  shape,  and  to  be 
so  nearly  dead  that  there  was  no 
pain.  Death  was  so  sweet,  so  utterly 
desirable.  And  life  such  an  unbeara- 
ble torment  of  agony,  such  a throb- 
bing, piercing  nightmare  of  an- 
guished convulsion.  If  only  the  life 
that  was  approaching  would  pass 
swiftly.  If  the  life  stopped,  it  would 
pull  it  into  shape.  Life  could  do 
that.  Life  was  stronger  than  metal, 
stronger  than  anything.  The  ap- 
proaching life  meant  torture,  strug- 
gle, pain. 

The  creature  tensed  its  now  flat, 
grotesque  body — the  body  that  could 
develop  muscles  of  steel — and  waited 
in  terror  for  the  death  struggle. 

Spacecraftsman  Parelli  whistled 
happily  as  he  strode  along  the  gleam- 
ing corridor  that  led  from  the  engine 
room.  He  had  just  received  a wire- 
less from  the  hospital.  His  wife  was 


-&D9  '*•* 


With  a horrible  effort  it  wrenched  itself  from  the  metal  form 
and  took  the  semblance  of  something  trying  to  be  human — 


doing  well,  and  it  was  a boy.  Eight 
pounds,  the  radiogram  had  said.  He 
suppressed  a desire  to  whoop  and 
dance.  A boy.  Life  sure  was  good. 

Pain  came  to  the  thing  on  the 
floor.  Primeval  pain  that  sucked 
through  its  elements  like  acid  burn- 
ing, burning.  The  brown  floor  shud- 
dered in  every  atom  as  Parelli  strode 

AST— 4 


over  it.  The  aching  urge  to  pull  to- 
ward him,  to  take  his  shape.  The 
thing  fought  its  horrible  desire, 
fought  with  anguish  and  shivering 
dread,  more  consciously  now  that  it 
could  think  with  Parelli’s  brain.  A 
ripple  of  floor  rolled  after  the  man. 

Fighting  didn’t  help.  The  ripple 
grew  into  a blob  that  momentarily 


42 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


seemed  to  become  a human  head. 
Gray,  hellish  nightmare  of  demoniac 
shape.  The  creature  hissed  metalli- 
cally in  terror,  then  collapsed  pal- 
pitating, slobbering  with  fear  and 
pain  and  hate  as  Parelli  strode  on 
rapidly — too  rapidly  for  its  creeping 
pace. 

The  thin,  horrible  sound  died;  the 
thing  dissolved  into  brown  floor,  and 
lay  quiescent  yet  quivering  in  every 
atom  from  its  unquenchable,  uncon- 
trollable urge  to  live — live  in  spite 
of  pain,  in  spite  of  abysmal  terror 
and  primordial  longing  for  stable 
shape.  To  live  and  fulfill  the  pur- 
pose of  its  lusting  and  malignant 
creators. 

Thirty  feet  up  the  corridor,  Pa- 
relli stopped.  He  jerked  his  mind 
from  its  thoughts  of  child  and  wife. 
He  spun  on  his  heels,  and  stared 
uncertainly  along  the  passageway 
from  the  engine  room. 

“Now,  what  the  devil  was  that?” 
he  pondered  aloud. 

A sound — a queer,  faint  yet  un- 
mistakably horrid  sound  was  echo- 
ing and  re-echoing  through  his  con- 
sciousness. A shiver  ran  the  length 
of  his  spine.  That  sound — that  dev- 
ilish sound. 

He  stood  there,  a tall,  magnifi- 
cently muscled  man,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  sweating  from  the  heat  gen- 
erated by  the  rockets  that  were 
decelerating  the  craft  after  its 
meteoric  flight  from  Mars.  Shudder- 
ing, he  clenched  his  fists,  and  walked 
slowly  back  the  way  he  had  come. 

The  creature  throbbed  with  the 
pull  of  him,  a gnawing,  writhing,  tor- 
menting struggle  that  pierced  into 
the  deeps  of  every  restless,  agitated 
cell,  stabbing  agonizingly  along  the 
alien  nervous  system;  and  then  be- 
came terrifyingly  aware  of  the  in- 
evitable, the  irresistible  need  to  take 
the  shape  of  the  life. 


Parelli  stopped  uncertainly.  The 
floor  moved  under  him,  a visible 
wave  that  reared  brown  and  horrible 
before  his  incredulous  eyes  and  grew 
into  a bulbous,  slobbering,  hissing 
mass.  A venomous  demon  head 
reared  on  twisted,  half-human  shoul- 
ders. Gnarled  hands  on  apelike,  mal- 
formed arms  clawed  at  his  face  with 
insensate  rage — and  changed  even  as 
they  tore  at  him. 

“Good  God!”  Parelli  bellowed. 

The  hands,  the  arms  that  clutched 
him  grew  more  normal,  more  human, 
brown,  muscular.  The  face  assumed 
familiar  lines,  sprouted  a nose,  eyes, 
a red  gash  of  mouth.  The  body  was 
suddenly  his  own,  trousers  and  all, 
sweat  and  all. 

“ — God!”  his  image  echoed;  and 
pawed  at  him  with  letching  fingers 
and  an  impossible  strength. 

Gasping,  Parelli  fought  free,  then 
launched  one  crushing  blow  straight 
into  the  distorted  face.  A drooling 
scream  of  agony  came  from  the  thing. 
It  turned  and  ran,  dissolving  as  it 
ran,  fighting  dissolution,  uttering 
strange  half-human  cries. 

And,  struggling  against  horror, 
Parelli  chased  it,  his  knees  weak  and 
trembling  from  sheer  funk  and  in- 
credulity. His  arm  reached  out,  and 
plucked  at  the  disintegrating  trou- 
sers. A piece  came  away  in  his  hand, 
a cold,  slimy,  writhing  lump  like  wet 
clay. 

The  feel  of  it  was  too  much.  His 
gorge  rising  in  disgust,  he  faltered  in 
his  stride.  He  heard  the  pilot  shout- 
ing ahead: 

“What’s  the  matter?” 

Parelli  saw  the  open  door  of  the 
storeroom.  With  a gasp,  he  dived  in, 
came  out  a moment  later,  wild-eyed, 
an  ato-gun  in  his  fingers.  He  saw  the 
pilot,  standing  with  staring,  horrified 
brown  eyes,  white  face  and  rigid 
body,  facing  one  of  the  great 
windows. 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


53 


“There  it  is!”  the  man  cried. 

A gray  blob  was  dissolving  into 
the  edge  of  the  glass,  becoming  glass. 
Parelli  rushed  forward,  ato-gun 
poised.  A ripple  went  through  the 
glass,  darkening  it;  and  then,  briefly, 
he  caught  a glimpse  of  a blob  emerg- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  the  glass  into 
the  cold  of  space. 

The  officer  stood  gaping  beside 
him;  the  two  of  them  watched  the 
gray,  shapeless  mass  creep  out  of 
sight  along  the  side  of  the  rushing 
freight  liner. 

Parelli  sprang  to  life.  “I  got  a 
piece  of  it!”  he  gasped.  “Flung  it 
down  on  the  floor  of  the  storeroom.” 

It  was  Lieutenant  Morton  who 
found  it.  A tiny  section  of  floor 
reared  up,  and  then  grew  amazingly 
large  as  it  tried  to  expand  into  human 
shape.  Parelli  with  distorted,  crazy 
eyes  scooped  it  up  in  a shovel.  It 
hissed;  it  nearly  became  a part  of 
the  metal  shovel,  but  couldn't  be- 
cause Parelli  was  so  close.  Chang- 
ing, fighting  for  shape,  it  slobbered 
and  hissed  as  Parelli  staggered  with 
it  behind  his  superior  officer.  He 
was  laughing  hysterically.  “I 
touched  it,”  he  kept  saying,  “I 
touched  it.” 

A large  blister  of  metal  on  the 
outside  of  tlie  space  freighter  stirred 
into  sluggish  life,  as  the  ship  tore 
into  the  Earth’s  atmosphere.  The 
metal  walls  of  the  freighter  grew  red, 
then  white-hot,  but  the  creature,  un- 
affected, continued  its  slow  transfor- 
mation into  gray  mass.  Vague 
thought  came  to  the  thing,  realiza- 
tion that  it  was  time  to  act. 

Sudden^,  it  was  floating  free  of 
the  ship,  falling  slowly,  heavily,  as  if 
somehow  the  gravitation  of  Earth 
had  no  serious  effect  upon  it.  A mi- 
nute distortion  in  its  electrons 
started  it  falling  faster,  as  in  some 


alien  way  it  suddenly  became  more 
allergic  to  gravity. 

The  Earth  was  green  below;  and  in 
the  dim  distance  a gorgeous  and  tre- 
mendous city  of  spires  and  massive 
buildings  glittered  in  the  sinking 
Sun.  The  thing  slowed,  and  drifted 
like  a falling  leaf  in  a breeze  toward 
the  still-distant  Earth.  It  landed  in 
an  arroyo  beside  a bridge  at  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city. 

A man  walked  over  the  bridge 
with  quick,  nervous  steps.  He  would 
have  been  amazed,  if  he  had  looked 
back,  to  see  a replica  of  himself  climb 
from  the  ditch  to  the  road,  and  start 
walking  briskly  after  him. 

Find  the — greatest  ‘mathemati- 
cian! 

It  was  an  hour  later;  and  the  pain 
of  that  throbbing  thought  was  a 
dull,  continuous  ache  in  the  crea- 
ture’s brain,  as  it  walked  along  the 
crowded  street.  There  were  other 
pains,  too.  The  pain  of  fighting  the 
pull  of  the  pushing,  hurrying  mass 
of  humanity  that  sw'armed  by  with 
unseeing  eyes.  But  it  was  easier  to 
think,  easier  to  hold  form  now'  that  it 
had  the  brain  and  body  of  a man. 

Find — mathematician! 

“Why?”  asked  the  man’s  brain  of 
the  thing;  and  the  whole  body  shook 
with  startled  shock  at  such  heretical 
questioning.  The  brown  eyes  darted 
in  fright  from  side  to  side,  as  if  ex- 
pecting instant  and  terrible  doom. 
The  face  dissolved  a little  in  that 
brief  moment  of  mental  chaos,  be- 
came successively  the  man  with  the 
hooked  nose  who  swung  by,  the 
tanned  face  of  the  tall  woman  who 
was  looking  into  the  shop  window, 
the — 

With  a second  gasp,  the  creature 
pulled  its  mind  back  from  fear,  and 
fought  to  readjust  its  face  to  that  of 
the  smooth-shaven  young  man  who 
sauntered  idly  in  from  a side  street. 
The  young  man  glanced  at  him, 


54 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


looked  away,  then  glanced  back 
again  startled.  The  creature  echoed 
the  thought  in  the  man’s  brain: 
“Who  the  devil  is  that?  Where  have 
I seen  that  fellow  before?” 

Half  a dozen  women  in  a group 
approached.  The  creature  shrank 
aside  as  they  passed,  its  face  twisted 
with  the  agony  of  the  urge  to  become 
woman.  Its  brown  suit  turned  just 
the  faintest  shade  of  blue,  the  color 
of  the  nearest  dress,  as  it  momen- 
tarily lost  control  of  its  outer  atoms. 
Its  mind  hummed  with  the  chatter 
of  clothes  and  “My  dear,  didn’t  she 
look  dreadful  in  that  awful  hat?” 
There  was  a solid  cluster  of  giant 
buildings  ahead.  The  thing  shook  itss 
human  head  consciously.  So  many 
buildings  meant  metal;  and  the 
forces  that  held  metal  together 
would  pull  and  pull  at  its  human 
shape.  The  creature  comprehended 
the  reason  for  this  with  the  under- 
standing of  the  slight  man  in  a dark 
suit  who  wandered  by  dully.  The 
slight  man  was  a clerk;  the  thing 
caught  his  thought.  He  was  think- 
ing enviously  of  his  boss  who  was 
Jim  Brender,  of  the  financial  firm  of 
J.  P.  Brender  & Co. 

The  overtones  of  that  thought 
struck  along  the  vibrating  elements 
of  the  creature.  It  turned  abruptly 
and  followed  Lawrence  Pearson, 
bookkeeper.  If  people  ever  paid 
attention  to  other  people  on  the 
street,  they  would  have  been  amazed 
after  a moment  to  see  two  Lawrence 
Pearsons  proceeding  down  the  street, 
one  some  fifty  feet  behind  the  other. 
The  second  Lawrence  Pearson  had 
learned  from  the  mind  of  the  first 
that  Jim  Brender  was  a Harvard 
graduate  in  mathematics,  finance 
and  political  economy,  the  latest  of 
a long  line  of  financial  geniuses, 
thirty  years  old,  and  the  head  of  the 
■tremendously  wealthy  J.  P.  Brender 
& Co.  Jim  Brender  had  just  married 


the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world; 
and  this  was  the  reason  for  Lawrence 
Pearson’s  discontent  with  life. 

“Here  I’m  thirty,  too,”  his 
thoughts  echoed  in  the  creature’s 
mind,  “and  I’ve  got  nothing.  He’s 
got  everything — everything  while  all 
I’ve  got  to  look  forward  to  is  the 
same  old  boardinghouse  till  the  end 
of  time.” 

It  was  getting  dark  as  the  two 
crossed  the  river.  The  creature 
quickened  its  pace,  striding  forward" 
with  aggressive  alertness  that  Law- 
rence Pearson  in  the  flesh  could  never 
have  managed.  Some  glimmering  of 
its  terrible  purpose  communicated  it- 
self in  that  last  instant  to  the  victim. 
The  slight  man  turned;  and  let  out 
a faint  squawk  as  those  steel-muscled 
fingers  jerked  at  his  throat,  a single, 
fearful  snap. 

The  creature’s  brain  went  black 
with  dizziness  as  the  brain  of  Law- 
rence Pearson  crashed  into  the  night 
of  death.  Gasping,  whimpering, 
fighting  dissolution,  it  finally  gained 
control  of  itself.  With  one  sweeping 
movement,  it  caught  the  dead  body 
and  flung  it  over  the  cement  railing. 
There  was  a splash  below,  then  a 
sound  of  gurgling  water. 

The  thing  that  was  now  Lawrence 
Pearson  walked  on  hurriedly,  then 
more  slowly  till  it  came  to  a large, 
rambling  brick  house.  It  looked  anx- 
iously at  the  number,  suddenly  un- 
certain if  it  had  remembered  rightly. 
Hesitantly,  it  opened  the  door. 

A streamer  of  yellow  light  splashed 
out,  and  laughter  vibrated  in  the 
thing’s  sensitive  ears.  There  was  the 
same  hum  of  many  thoughts  and 
many  brains,  as  there  had  been  in 
the  street.  The  creature  fought 
against  the  inflow  of  thought  that 
threatened  to  crowd  out  the  mind  of 
Lawrence  Pearson.  A little  dazed  by 
the  struggle,  it  found  itself  in  a large. 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


55 


bright  hall,  which  looked  through  a 
door  into  a room  where  a dozen  peo- 
ple were  sitting  around  a dining 
table. 

“Oh,  it’s  you,  Mr.  Pearson,”  said 
the  landlady  from  the  head  of  the 
table.  She  was  a sharp-nosed,  thin- 
mouthed woman  at  whom  the  crea- 
ture stared  with  brief  intentness. 
Prom  her  mind,  a thought  had  come. 
She  had  a son  who  was  a mathe- 
matics teacher  in  a high  school.  The 
creature  shrugged.  In  one  penetrat- 
ing glance,  the  truth  throbbed  along 
the  intricate  atomic  structure  of  its 
body.  This  woman’s  son  was  as 
much  of  an  intellectual  lightweight 
as  his  mother. 

“You’re  just  in  time,”  she  said  in- 
curiously. “Sarah,  bring  Mr.  Pear- 
son’s plate.” 

“Thank  you,  but  I’m  not  feeling 
hungry,”  the  creature  replied;  and  its 
human  brain  vibrated  to  the  first  si- 
lent, ironic  laughter  that  it  had  ever 
known.  “I  think  I’ll  just  lie  down.” 

All  night  long  it  lay  on  the  bed  of 
Lawrence  Pearson,  bright-eyed,  alert, 
becoming  more  and  more  aware  of 
itself.  It  thought: 

“I’m  a machine,  without  a brain  of 
my  own.  I use  the  brains  of  other 
people,  but  somehow  my  creators 
made  it  possible  for  me  to  be  more 
than  just  an  echo.  I use  people’s 
brains  to  carry  out  my  purpose.” 

It  pondered  about  those  creators, 
and  felt  a surge  of  panic  sweeping 
along  its  alien  system,  darkening  its 
human  mind.  There  was  a vague 
physiological  memory  of  pain  unut- 
terable, and  of  tearing  chemical  ac- 
tion that  was  frightening. 

The  creature  rose  at  dawn,  and 
walked  the  streets  till  half  past  nine. 
At  that  hour,  it  approached  the  im- 
posing marble  entrance  of  J.  P.  Bren- 
der  & Co.  Inside,  it  sank  down  in 
the  comfortable  chair  initialed  L.  P.; 
and  began  painstakingly  to  work  at 


the  books  Lawrence  Pearson  had  put 
away  the  night  before. 

At  ten  o’clock,  a tail  young  man 
in  a dark  suit  entered  the  arched 
hallway  and  walked  briskly  through 
the  row  after  row  of  offices.  He 
smiled  with  easy  confidence  to  every 
side.  The  thing  did  not  need  the 
chorus  of  “Good  morning,  Mr.  Bree- 
der” to  know  that  its  prey  had  ar- 
rived. 

Terrible  in  its  slow-won  self- 
confidence,  it  rose  with  a lithe,  grace- 
ful movement  that  would  have  been 
impossible  to  the  real  Lawrence  Pear- 
son, and  walked  briskly  to  the  wash- 
room. A moment  later,  the  very 
image  of  Jim  Brender  emerged  from 
the  door  and  walked  with  easy  con- 
fidence to  the  door  of  the  private 
office  which  Jim  Brender  had  en- 
tered a few  minutes  before. 

The  thing  knocked  and  walked  in 
— and  simultaneously  became  aware 
of  three  things:  The  first  was  that 

it  had  found  the  mind  after  which  it 
had  been  sent.  The  second  was  that 
its  image  mind  was  incapable  of 
imitating  the  finer  subtleties  of  the 
razor-sharp  brain  of  the  young  man 
who  was  staring  up  from  dark-gray 
eyes  that  were  a little  startled.  And 
the  third  was  the  large  metal  bas- 
relief  that  hung  on  the  wall. 

With  a shock  that  almost  brought 
chaos,  it  felt  the  overpowering  tug 
of  that  metal.  And  in  one  flash 
it  knew  that  this  was  ultimate 
metal,  product  of  the  fine  craft 
of  the  ancient  Martians,  whose 
metal  cities,  loaded  with  treasures  of 
furniture,  art  and  machinery  were 
slowly  being  dug  up  by  enterprising 
human  beings  from  the  sands  under 
which  they  had  been  buried  for  thirty 
or  fifty  million  years. 

The  ultimate  metal!  The  metal 
that  no  heat  would  even  warm,  that 
no  diamond  or  other  cutting  device, 


66 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


could  scratch,  never  duplicated  by 
human  beings,  as  mysterious  as  the 
ieis  force  which  the  Martians  made 
from  apparent  nothingness. 

All  these  thoughts  crowded  the 
creature’s  brain,  as  it  explored  the 
memory  cells  of  Jim  Brender.  With 
an  effort  that  was  a special  pain,  the 
thing  wrenched  its  mind  from  the 
metal,  and  fastened  its  eyes  on  Jim 
Brender.  It  caught  the  full  flood  of 
the  wonder  in  his  mind,  as  he  stood 
up. 

“Good  lord,”  said  Jim  Brender, 
“who  are  you?” 

“My  name’s  Jim  Brender,”  said 
the  thing,  conscious  of  grim  amuse- 
ment, conscious,  too,  that  it  was 
progress  for  it  to  be  able  to  feel  such 
an  emotion. 

The  real  Jim  Brender  had  recov- 
ered himself.  “Sit  down,  sit  down,” 
he  said  heartily.  “This  is  the  most 
amazing  coincidence  I’ve  ever  seen.” 
He  went  over  to  the  mirror  that 
made  one  panel  of  the  left  wall.  He 
stared,  first  at  himself,  then  at  the 
creature.  “Amazing,”  he  said.  “Ab- 
solutely amazing.” 

“Mr.  Brender,”  said  the  creature, 
“I  saw  your  picture  in  the  paper,  and 
I thought  our  astounding  resem- 
blance would  make  you  listen,  where 
otherwise  you  might  pay  no  atten- 
tion. I have  recently  returned  from 
Mars,  and  I am  here  to  persuade  you 
to  come  back  to  Mars  with  me.” 
“That,”  said  Jim  Brender,  “is  im- 
possible.” 

“Wait,”  the  creature  said,  “until  I 
have  told  you  why.  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  the  Tower  of  the  Beast?” 
“The  Tower  of  the  Beast!”  Jim 
Brender  repeated  slowly.  He  went 
around  his  desk  and  pushed  a button. 

A voice  from  an  ornamental  box 
said:  “Yes,  Mr.  Brender?” 

“Dave,  get  me  all  the  data  on  the 
Tower  of  the  Beast  and  the  legen- 


dary city  of  Li  in  which  it  is  sup- 
posed to  exist.” 

“Don’t  need  to  look  it  up,”  came 
the  crisp  reply.  “Most  Martian  his- 
tories refer  to  it  as  the  beast  that  fell 
from  the  sky  when  Mars  was  young 
— some  terrible  warning  connected 
with  it — the  beast  was  unconscious 
when  found — said  to  be  the  result  of 
its  falling  out  of-  sub-space.  Mar- 
tians read  its  mind;  and  were  so  hor- 
rified by  its  subconscious  intentions 
they  tried  to  kill  it,  but  couldn’t.  So 
they  built  a huge  vault,  about  fifteen 
hundred  feet  in  diameter  and  a mile 
high — and  the  beast,  apparently  of 
these  dimensions,  was  locked  in.  Sev- 
eral attempts  have  been  made  to  find 
the  city  of  Li,  but  without  success. 
Generally  believed  to  be  a myth. 
That’s  all,  Jim.” 

“Thank  you!”  Jim  Brender  clicked 
off  the  connection,  and  turned  to  his 
visitor.  “Well?” 

“It  is  not  a myth.  I know'  where 
the  Tower  of  the  Beast  is;  and  I also 
know  that  the  beast  is  still  alive.” 

“Now,  see  here,”  said  Brender 
good-humoredly,  “I’m  intrigued  by 
your  resemblance  to  me;  and  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I’d  like  Pamela — my 
wife — to  see  you.  How  about  com- 
ing over  to  dinner?  But  don’t,  for 
Heaven’s  sake,  expect  me  to  believe 
such  a story.  The  beast,  if  there  is 
such  a thing,  fell  from  the  sky  when 
Mars  was  young.  There  are  some 
authorities  who  maintain  that  the 
Martian  race  died  out  a hundred  mil- 
lion years  ago,  though  twenty-five 
million  is  the  conservative  estimate. 
The  only  things  remaining  of  their 
civilization  are  their  constructions  of 
ultimate  metal.  Fortunately,  to- 
ward the  end  they  built  almost 
everything  from  that  indestructible 
metal.” 

“Let  me  tell  you  about  the  Tower 
of  the  Beast,”  said  the  thing  quietly. 
“It  is  a tower  of  gigantic  size,  but 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


57 


only  a hundred  feet  or  so  projected 
above  the  sand  when  I saw  it.  The 
whole  top  is  a door,  and  that  door  is 
geared  to  a time  lock,  which  in  turn 
has  been  integrated  along  a line  of 
ieis  to  the  ultimate  prime  number.” 

Jim  Brender  stared;  and  the  thing 
caught  his  startled  thought,  the  first 
uncertainty,  and  the  beginning  of 
belief. 

“Ultimate  prime  number!”  Bren- 
der ejaculated.  “What  do  you 
mean?”  he  caught  himself.  “I  know 
of  course  that  a prime  number  is  a 
number  divisible  only  by  itself  and 
by  one.” 

He  snatched  at  a book  from  the 
little  wall  library  beside  his  desk,  and 
rippled  through  it.  “The  largest 
known  prime  is — ah,  here  it  is 
—is  23058430092139395 1 . Some 

others,  according  to  this  authority, 
are  77843839397,  182521213001,  and 
78875943472201.” 

He  frowned.  “That  makes  the 
whole  thing  ridiculous.  The  ulti- 
mate prime  would  be  an  indefinite 
number.”  He  smiled  at  the  thing. 
“If  there  is  a beast,  and  it  is  locked 
up  in  a vault  of  ultimate  metal,  the 
door  of  which  is  geared  to  a time 
lock,  integrated  along  a line  of  ieis 
to  the  ultimate  prime  number — then 
the  beast  is  caught.  Nothing  in  the 
world  can  free  it.” 

“To  the  contrary,”  said  the  crea- 
ture. “I  have  been  assured  by  the 
beast  that  it  is  within  the  scope  of 
human  mathematics  to  solve  the 
problem,  but  that  what  is  required  is 
a born  mathematical  mind,  equipped 
with  all  the  mathematical  training 
that  Earth  science  can  afford.  You 
are  that  man.” 

“You  expect  me  to  release  this  evil 
creature — even  if  I could  perform 
this  miracle  of  mathematics.” 

“Evil  nothing!”  snapped  the  thing. 
“That  ridiculous  fear  of  the  unknown 


which  made  the  Martians  imprison  it 
has  resulted  in  a very  grave  wrong. 
The  beast  is  a scientist  from  another 
space,  accidentally  caught  in  one  of 
his  experiments.  I say  ‘his’  when  of 
course  I do  not  know  whether  this 
race  has  a sexual  differentiation.” 
“You  actually  talked  with  the 
beast?” 

“It  communicated  with  me  by 
mental  telepathy.” 

“It  has  been  proven  that  thoughts 
cannot  penetrate  ultimate  metal.” 
“What  do  humans  know  about 
telepathy?  They  cannot  even  com- 
municate with  each  other  except  un- 
der special  conditions.”  The  crea- 
ture spoke  contemptuously. 

“That’s  right.  And  if  your  story 
is  true,  then  this  is  a matter  for  the 
Council.” 

“This  is  a matter  for  two  men,  you 
and  I.  Have  you  forgotten  that  the 
vault  of  the  beast  is  the  central  tower 
of  the  great  city  of  Li — billions  of 
dollars’  worth  of  treasure  in  furni- 
ture, art  and  machinery?  The  beast 
demands  release  from  its  prison  be- 
fore it  will  permit  anyone  to  mine 
that  treasure.  You  can  release  it. 
We  can  share  the  treasure.” 

“Let  me  ask  you  a question,”  said 
Jim  Brender.  “What  is  your  real 
name?” 

“P-Piei'ce  Lawrence!”  the  creature 
stammered.  For  the  moment,  it 
could  think  of  no  greater  variation 
of  the  name  of  its  first  victim  than 
reversing  the  two  words,  with  a 
slight  change  on  “Pearson.”  Its 
thoughts  darkened  with  confusion  as 
the  voice  of  Brender  pounded: 

“On  what  ship  did  you  come  from 
Mars?” 

“O-on  FJ+961,”  the  thing  stam- 
mered chaotically,  fury  adding  to  the 
confused  state  of  its  mind.  It  fought 
for  control,  felt  itself  slipping,  sud- 
denly felt  the  pull  of  the  ultimate 
metal  that  made  up  the  bas-relief  on 


£8 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


the  wall,  and  knew  by  that  tug  that 
it  was  dangerously  near  dissolution. 

“That  would  be  a freighter,”  said 
Jim  Brender.  He  pressed  a button. 
“Carltons,  find  out  if  the  F/+961  had 
a passenger  or  person  aboard,  named 
Pierce  Lawrence.  How  long  will  it 
take?” 

“About  a minute,  sir.” 

“You  see,”  said  Jim  Brender,  lean- 
ing back,  “this  is  mere  formality.  If 
you  were  on  that  ship,  then  I shall 
be  compelled  to  give  serious  atten- 
tion to  your  statements.  You  can 
understand,  of  course,  that  I could 
not  possibly  go  into  a thing  like  this 
blindly.  I—” 

The  buzzer  rang.  “Yes?”  said  Jim 
Brender. 

“Only  the  crew  of  two  was  on  the 
F4961  when  it  landed  yesterday.  No 
such  person  as  Pierce  Lawrence  was 
aboard.” 

“Thank  you.”  Jim  Brender  stood 
up.  He  said  coldly.  “Good-by,  Mr. 
Lawrence.  I cannot  imagine  what 
you  hoped  to  gain  by  this  ridiculous 
story.  However,  it  has  been  most 
intriguing,  and  the  problem  you  pre- 
sented was  very  ingenious  indeed — ” 

The  buzzer  was  ringing.  “What 
is  it?” 

“Mr.  Gorson  to  see  you,  sir.” 

“Very  well,  send  him  right  in.” 

The  thing  had  greater  control  of 
its  brain  now,  and  it  saw  in  Bren- 
der’s  mind  that  Gorson  was  a finan- 
cial magnate,  whose  business  ranked 
with  the  Brender  firm.  It  saw  other 
thing's,  too;  things  that  made  it  walk 
out  of  the  private  office,  out  of  the 
building,  and  wait  patiently  until 
Mr.  Gorson  emerged  from  the  impos- 
ing entrance.  A few  minutes  later, 
there  were  two  Mr.  Gorsons  walking 
down  the  street. 

Mr.  Gorson  was  a vigorous  man 
in  his  early  fifties.  He  had  lived  a 
clean,  active  life;  and  the  hard  mem- 


ories of  many  climates  and  several 
planets  were  stored  away  in  his 
brain.  The  thing  caught  the  alert- 
ness of  this  man  on  its  sensitive  ele- 
ments, and  followed  him  warily,  re- 
spectfully, not  quite  decided  whether 
it  would  act. 

It  thought:  “I’ve  come  a long 

way  from  the  primitive  life  that 
wouldn’t  hold  its  shape.  My  creators, 
in  designing  me,  gave  to  me  powers 
of  learning,  developing.  It  is  easier 
to  fight  dissolution,  easier  to  be 
human.  In  handling  this  man,  I 
must  remember  that  my  strength  is 
invincible  when  properly  used.” 

With  minute  care,  it  explored  in 
the  mind  of  its  intended  victim  the 
exact  route  of  his  walk  to  his  office. 
There  was  the  entrance  to  a large 
building  clearly  etched  on  his  mind. 
Then  a long,  marble  corridor,  into  an 
automatic  elevator  up  to  the  eighth 
floor,  along  a short  corridor  with  two 
doors.  One  door  led  to  the  private 
entrance  of  the  man’s  private  office. 
The  other  to  a storeroom  used  by  the 
janitor.  Gorson  had  looked  into  the 
place  on  various  occasions;  and  there 
was  in  his  mind,  among  other  things, 
the  memory  of  a large  chest — 

The  thing  waited  in  the  storeroom 
till  the  unsuspecting  Gorson  was 
passed  the  door.  The  door  creaked. 
Gorson  turned,  his  eyes  widening. 
He  didn’t  have  a chance.  A fist  of 
solid  steel  smashed  his  face  to  a pulp, 
knocking  the  bones  back  into  his 
brain. 

This  time,  the  creature  did  not 
make  the  mistake  of  keeping  its  mind 
tuned  to  that  of  its  victim.  It  caught 
him  viciously  as  he  fell,  forcing  its 
steel  fist  back  to  a semblance  of 
human  flesh.  With  furious  speed,  it 
stuffed  the  bulky  and  athletic  form 
into  the  large  chest,  and  clamped  the 
lid  down  tight. 

Alertly,  it  emerged  from  the  store- 
room, entered  the  private  office  of 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


59 


Mr.  Gorson,  and  sat  down  before  the 
gleaming  desk  of  oak.  The  man  who 
responded  to  the  pressing  of  a button 
saw  John  Gorson  sitting  there,  and 
heard  John  Gorson  say: 

“Crispins,  I want  you  to  start  sell- 
ing these  stocks  through  the  secret 
channels  right  away.  Sell  until  I tell 
you  to  stop,  even  if  you  think  it’s 
crazy.  I have  information  of  some- 
thing big  on.” 

Crispins  glanced  down  the  row 
after  row  of  stock  names;  and  his 
eyes  grew  wider  and  wider.  “Good 
lord,  man!”  he  gasped  finally,  with 
that  familiarity  which  is  the  right  of 
a trusted  adviser,  “these  are  all  the 
gild-edged  stocks.  Your  whole  for- 
tune can’t  swing  a deal  like  this.” 

“I  told  you  I’m  not  in  this  alone.” 
“But  it’s  against  the  law  to  break 
the  market,”  the  man  protested. 

“Crispins,  you  heard  what  I said. 
I’m  leaving  the  office.  Don’t  try  to 
get  in  touch  with  me.  I’ll  call  you.” 
The  thing  that  was  John  Gorson 
stood  up,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
bewildered  thoughts  that  flowed 
from  Crispins.  It  went  out  of  the 
door  by  which  it  had  entered.  As  it 
emerged  from  the  building,  it  was 
thinking:  “All  I’ve  got  to  do  is  kill 

half  a dozen  financial  giants,  start 
their  stocks  selling,  and  then — ” 

By  one  o’clock  it  was  over.  The 
exchange  didn’t  close  till  three,  but 
at  one  o’clock,  the  news  was  flashed 
on  the  New  York  tickers.  In  Lon- 
don, where  it  was  getting  dark,  the 
papers  brought  out  an  extra.  In 
Hankow  and  Shanghai,  a dazzling 
new  day  was  breaking  as  the  news- 
boys ran  along  the  streets  in  the 
shadows  of  skyscrapers,  and  shouted 
that  J.  P.  Brender  & Co.  had  as- 
signed; and  that  there  was  to  be  an 
investigation — 

“We  are  facing,”  said  the  chair- 
man of  the  investigation  committee, 
in  his  opening  address  the  following 


morning,  “one  of  the  most  astound- 
ing coincidents  in  all  history.  An 
ancient  and  respected  firm,  with 
world-wide  affiliations  and  branches, 
with  investments  in  more  than  a 
thousand  companies  of  every  descrip- 
tion, is  struck  bankrupt  by  an  unex- 
pected crash  in  every  stock  in  which 
the  firm  was  interested.  It  will  re- 
quire months  to  take  evidence  on  the 
responsibility  for  the  short-selling 
which  brought  about  this  disaster. 
In  the  meantime,  I see  no  reason, 
regrettable  as  the  action  must  be  to 
all  the  old  friends  of  the  late  J.  P. 
Brender,  and  of  his  son,  why  the 
demands  of  the  creditors  should  not 
be  met,  and  the  properties  liquidated 
through  auction  sales  and  such  other 
methods  as  may  be  deemed  proper 
and  legal — ” 

“Really,  I don’t  blame  her,”  said 
the  first  woman,  as  they  wandered 
through  the  spacious  rooms  of  the 
Brenders’  Chinese  palace.  “I  have 
no  doubt  she  does  love  Jim  Brender, 
but  no  one  could  seriously  expect  her 
to  remain  married  to  him  now.  She’s 
a woman  of  the  world,  and  it’s  ut- 
terly impossible  to  expect  her  to  live 
with  a man  who’s  going  to  be  a mere 
pilot  or  space  hand  or  something  on 
a Martian  spaceship — ” 

Commander  Hughes  of  Inter- 
planetary Spaceways  entered  the  of- 
fice of  his  employer  truculently.  He 
was  a small  man,  but  extremely  wiry; 
and  the  thing  that  was  Louis  Dyer 
gazed  at  him  tensely,  conscious  of 
the  force  and  power  of  this  man. 

Hughes  began:  “You  have  my  re- 
port on  this  Brender  case?” 

The  thing  twirled  the  mustache  of 
Louis  Dyer  nervously;  then  picked 
up  a small  folder,  and  read  out  loud: 

“Dangerous  for  psychological  rea- 
sons ...  to  employ  Brender.  . . . 
So  many  blows  in  succession.  Loss 
of  wealth,  position  and  wife.  , , , 


60 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


No  norma]  man  could  remain  normal 
under  . . . circumstances.  Take 
him  into  office  . . . befriend  him  . . . 
give  him  a sinecure,  or  position  where 
his  undoubted  great  ability  . . . but 
not  on  a spaceship,  where  the  utmost 
hardiness,  both  mental,  moral,  spir- 
itual and  physical  is  required — ” 

Hughes  interrupted:  “Those  are 

exactly  the  points  which  I am  stress- 
ing. I knew  you  would  see  what  I 
meant,  Louis.” 

“Of  course,  I see,”  said  the  crea- 
ture, smiling  in  grim  amusement,  for 
it  was  feeling  very  superior  these 
days.  “Your  thoughts,  your  ideas, 
your  code  and  your  methods  are 
stamped  irrevocably  on  your  brain 
and” — it  added  hastily — “you  have 
never  left  me  in  doubt  as  to  where 
you  stand.  However,  in  this  case,  I 
must  insist.  Jim  Brender  will  not 
take  an  ordinary  position  offered  by 
his  friends.  And  it  is  ridiculous  to 
ask  him  to  subordinate  himself  to 
men  to  whom  he  is  in  every  way 
superior.  He  has  commanded  his 
own  space  yacht;  he  knows  more 
about  the  mathematical  end  of  the 
work  than  our  whole  staff  put  to- 
gether; and  that  is  no  reflection  on 
our  staff.  He  knows  the  hardships 
connected  with  space  flying,  and  be- 
lieves that  it  is  exactly  what  he 
needs.  I,  therefore,  command  you, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  long  associa- 
tion, Peter,  to  put  him  on  space 
freighter  F4961  in  the  place  of  Space- 
craftsman  Parelli  who  collapsed  into 
a nervous  breakdown  after  that  cu- 
rious affair  with  the  creature  from 
space,  as  Lieutenant  Morton  de- 
scribed it — By  the  way,  did  you 
find  the  . . . er  . . . sample  of 
that  creature  yet?” 

“No,  sir,  it  vanished  the  day  you 
came  in  to  look  at  it.  We’ve  searched 
the  place  high  and  low — queerest 
stuff  you  ever  saw.  Goes  through 
glass  as  easy  as  light;  you’d  think  it 


was  some  form  of  light-stuff — scares 
me,  too.  A pure  sympodial  develop- 
ment— actually  more  adaptable  to 
environment  than  anything  hitherto 
discovered;  and  that’s  putting  it 
mildly.  I tell  you,  sir — But  see  here, 
you  can’t  steer  me  off  the  Brender 
case  like  that.” 

“Peter,  I don’t  understand  your 
attitude.  This  is  the  first  time  I’ve 
interfered  with  your  end  of  the  work 
and — ” 

“I’ll  resign,”  groaned  that  sorely 
beset  man. 

The  thing  stifled  a smile.  “Peter, 
you’ve  built  up  the  staff  of  Space- 
ways.  It’s  your  child,  your  creation; 
you  can’t  give  it  up,  you  know  you 
can’t—” 

The  words  hissed  softly  into  alarm; 
for  into  Hughes’  brain  had  flashed 
the  first  real  intention  of  resigning. 
Just  hearing  of  his  accomplishments 
and  the  story  of  his  beloved  job 
brought  such  a rush  of  memories, 
such  a realization  of  how  tremendous 
an  outrage  was  this  threatened  inter- 
ference. In  one  mental  leap,  the 
creature  saw  what  this  man’s  resigna- 
tion would  mean:  The  discontent  of 
the  men;  the  swift  perception  of  the 
situation  by  Jim  Brender;  and  his 
refusal  to  accept  the  job.  There 
was  only  one  way  out — that  Brender 
would  get  to  the  ship  without  finding 
out  what  had  happened.  Once  on  it, 
he  must  carry  through  with  one  trip 
to  Mars;  and  that  was  all  that  was 
needed. 

The  thing  pondered  the  possibility 
of  imitating  Hughes’  body;  then 
agonizingly  realized  that  it  was  hope- 
less. Both  Louis  Dyer  and  Hughes 
must  be  around  until  the  last  minute. 

“But,  Peter,  listen!”  the  creature 
began  chaotically.  Then  it  said, 
“Damn!”  for  it  was  very  human  in 
its  mentality;  and  the  realization 
that  Hughes  took  its  words  as  a sign 
of  weakness  was  maddening.  Un- 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


61 


certainty  descended  like  a black 
cloud  over  its  brain. 

“I’ll  tell  Brender  when  he  arrives 
in  five  minutes  how  I feel  about  all 
this!”  Hughes  snapped;  and  the  crea- 
ture knew  that  the  worst  had  hap- 
pened. “If  you  forbid  me  to  tell 
him,  then  I resign.  I — Good  God, 
man,  your  face!” 

Confusion  and  horror  came  to  the 
creature  simultaneously.  It  knew' 
abruptly  that  its  face  had  dissolved 
before  the  threatened  ruin  of  its 
plans.  It  fought  for  control,  leaped 
to  its  feet,  seeing  the  incredible 
danger.  The  large  office  just  beyond 
the  frosted  glass  door — Hughes’  first 
outcry  would  bring  help — 

With  a half  sob,  it  sought  to  force 
its  arm  into  an  imitation  of  a metal 
fist,  but  there  was  no  mefal  in  the 
room  to  pull  it  into  shape.  There 
was  only  the  solid  maple  desk.  With 
a harsh  cry,  the  creature  leaped  com- 
pletely over  the  desk,  and  sought  to 
bury  a pointed  shaft  of  stick  into 
Hughes’  throat. 

Hughes  cursed  in  amazement,  and 
caught  at  the  stick  with  furious 
strength.  There  was  sudden  commo- 
tion in  the  outer  office,  raised  voices, 
running  feet — 

It  was  quite  accidental  the  way  it 
happened.  The  surface  cars  swayed 
to  a stop,  drawing  up  side  by  side  as 
the  red  light  blinked  on  ahead.  Jim 
Brender  glanced  at  the  next  car. 

A girl  and  a man  sat  in  the  rear  of 
the  long,  shiny,  streamlined  affair, 
and  the  girl  was  desperately  striving 
to  crouch  down  out  of  his  sight,  striv- 
ing with  equal  desperation  not  to  be 
too  obvious  in  her  intention.  Realiz- 
ing that  she  was  seen,  she  smiled 
brilliantly,  and  leaned  out  of  the 
window. 

“Hello,  Jim,  how’s  everything?” 

“Hello,  Pamela!”  Jim  Brender ’s 
fingers  tightened  on  the  steering 


wheel  till  the  knuckles  showed  white, 
as  he  tried  to  keep  his  voice  steady. 
He  couldn’t  help  adding:  “When 

does  the  divorce  become  final?" 

“I  get  my  papers  tomorrow,”  she 
said,  “but  I suppose  you  won’t  get 
yours  till  you  return  from  your  first 
trip.  Leaving  today,  aren’t  you?” 
“In  about  fifteen  minutes.”  He 
hesitated.  “When  is  the  wedding?” 
The  rather  plump,  white-faced 
man  who  had  not  participated  in  the 
conversation  so  far,  leaned  forward. 

’ “Next  week,”  he  said.  He  put  his 
fingers  possessively  over  Pamela’s 
hand.  “I  wanted  it  tomorrow  but 
Pamela  wouldn’t — er,  good-by.” 

His  last  words  were  hastily  spoken, 
as  the  traffic  lights  switched,  and  the 
cars  rolled  on,  separating  at  the  first 
corner. 

The  rest  of  the  drive  to  the  space- 
port was  a blur.  He  hadn’t  expected 
the  wedding  to  take  place  so  soon. 
Hadn’t,  when  he  came  right  down  to 
it,  expected  it  to  take  place  at  all. 
Like  a fool,  he  had  hoped  blindly — 
Not  that  it  was  Pamela’s  fault. 
Her  training,  her  very  life  made  this 
the  only  possible  course  of  action  for 
her.  But — one  week!  The  space- 
ship would  be  one  fourth  of  the  long 
trip  to  Mars — 

He  parked  his  car.  As  he  paused 
beside  the  runway  that  led  to  the 
open  door  of  F 4961 — a huge  globe  of 
shining  metal,  three  hundred  feet  in 
diameter — he  saw  a man  running  to- 
ward him.  Then  he  recognized 
Hughes. 

The  thing  that  was  Hughes  ap- 
proached, fighting  for  calmness.  The 
whole  world  was  a flame  of  cross- 
pulling forces.  It  shrank  from  the 
thoughts  of  the  people  milling  about 
in  the  office  it  had  just  left.  Every- 
thing had  gone  wrong.  It  had  never 
intended  to  do  what  it  now  had  to  do'. 
It  had  intended  to  spend  most  of  the 
trip  to  Mars  as  a blister  of  metal'ort 


62 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


the  outer  shield  of  the  ship.  With  an 
effort,  it  controlled  its  funk,  its  ter- 
ror, its  brain. 

“We're  leaving  right  away,”  it 
said. 

Brender  looked  amazed.  “But 
that  means  I’ll  have  to  figure  out  a 


new  orbit  under  the  most  difficult — ” 
“Exactly,”  the  creature  inter- 
rupted. “I’ve  been  hearing  a lot 
about  your  marvelous  mathematical 
ability.  It’s  time  the  words  were 
proved  by  deeds.” 

Jim  Brender  shrugged.  “I  have 


“When  you  are  quite  through  shooting  me,”  said 
Brender’s  perfect  duplicate,  “ perhaps  we  can  talk.” 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


GS 


no  objection.  But  how  is  it  that 
you’re  coming  along?” 

“I  always  go  with  a new  man.” 

It  sounded  reasonable.  Brender 
climbed  the  runway,  closely  followed 
by  Hughes.  The  powerful  pull  of 
the  metal  was  the  first  real  pain  the 
creature  had  known  for  days.  For  a 
long  month,  it  would  now  have  to 
fight  the  metal,  fight  to  retain  the 
shape  of  Hughes — and  carry  on  a 
thousand  duties  at  the  same  time. 

That  first  stabbing  pain  tore  along 
its  elements,  and  smashed  the  con- 
fidence that  days  of  being  human  had 
built  up.  And  then,  as  it  followed 
Brender  through  the  door,  it  heard  a 
shout  behind  it.  It  looked  back 
hastily.  People  were  streaming  out 
of  several  doors,  running  toward  the 
ship. 

Brender  was  several  yards  along 
the  corridor.  With  a hiss  that  was 
almost  a sob,  the  creature  leaped 
inside,  and  pulled  the  lever  that 
clicked  the  great  door  shut. 

There  was  an  emergency  lever  that 
controlled  the  antigravity  plates. 
With  one  jerk,  the  creature  pulled 
the  heavy  lever  hard  over.  There 
was  a sensation  of  lightness  and  a 
sense  of  falling. 

Through  the 'great  plate  window, 
the  creature  caught  a flashing 
glimpse  of  the  field  below,  swarming 
with  people.  White  faces  turning 
upward,  arms  waving.  Then  the 
scene  grew  remote,  as  a thunder  of 
rockets  vibrated  through  the  ship. 

“I  hope,”  said  Brender,  as  Hughes 
entered  the  control  room,  “you 
wanted  me  to  start  the  rockets.” 
“Yes,”  the  thing  replied,  and  felt 
brief  panic  at  the  chaos  in  its  brain, 
the  tendency  of  its  tongue  to  blur. 
“I’m  leaving  the  mathematical  end 
entirely  in  your  hands.” 

It  didn’t  dare  stay  so  near  the 
heavy  metal  engines,  even  with  Bren- 


der’s  body  there  to  help  it  keep  its 
human  shape.  Hurriedly,  it  started 
up  the  corridor.  The  best  place 
would  be  the  insulated  bedroom — 

Abruptly,  it  stopped  in  its  head- 
long walk,  teetered  for  an  instant  on 
tiptoes.  From  the  control  room  it 
had  just  left,  a thought  was  trick- 
ling— a thought  from  Brender’s 
brain.  The  creature  almost  dissolved 
in  terror  as  it  realized  that  Brender 
was  sitting  at  the  radio,  answering 
an  insistent  call  from  Earth — 

It  burst  into  the  control  room,  and 
braked  to  a halt,  its  eyes  widening 
with  humanlike  dismay.  Brender 
whirled  from  before  the  radio  with  a 
single  twisting  step.  In  his  fingers, 
he  held  a revolver.  In  his  mind,  the 
creature  read  a dawning  comprehen- 
sion of  the  whole  truth.  Brender 
cried: 

“You’re  the  . . . thing  that  came 
to  my  office,  and  talked  about  prime 
numbers  and  the  vault  of  the  beast.” 

He  took  a step  to  one  side  to  cover 
an  open  doorway  that  led  down  an- 
other corridor.  The  movement 
brought  the  telescreen  into  the  vision 
of  the  creature.  In  the  screen  was 
the  image  of  the  real  Hughes.  Simul- 
taneously, Hughes  saw  the  thing. 

“Brender,”  he  bellowed,  “it’s  the 
monster  that  Morton  and  Parelli  saw 
on  their  trip  from  Mars.  It  doesn’t 
react  to  heat  or  any  chemicals,  but 
we  never  tried  bullets.  Shoot,  you 
fool!” 

It  was  too  much,  there  was  too 
much  metal,  too  much  confusion. 
With  a whimpering  cry,  the  creature 
dissolved.  The  pull  of  the  metal 
twisted  it  horribly  into  thick  half 
metal;  the  struggle  to  be  human  left 
it  a malignant  structure  of  bulbous 
head,  with  one  eye  half  gone,  and 
two  snakelike  arms  attached  to  the 
half  metal  of  the  body. 

Instinctively,  it  fought  closer  to 


64 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Brender,  letting  the  pull  of  his  body 
make  it  more  human.  The  half  metal 
became  fleshlike  stuff  that  sought  to 
return  to  its  human  shape. 

“Listen,  Brender!”  Hughes’  voice 
came  urgently.  “The  fuel  vats  in  the 
engine  room  are  made  of  ultimate 
metal.  One  of  them  is  empty.  We 
caught  a part  of  this  thing  once  be- 
fore, and  it  couldn’t  get  out  of  the 
small  jar  of  ultimate  metal.  If  you 
could  drive  it  into  the  vat  while  it’s 
lost  control  of  itself,  as  it  seems  to  do 
very  easily — ” 

“I’ll  see  what  lead  can  do!”  Bren- 
der rapped  in  a brittle  voice. 

Bang!  The  half-human  creature 
screamed  from  its  half-formed  slit  of 
mouth,  and  retreated,  its  legs  dissolv- 
ing into  gray  dough. 

“It  hurts,  doesn’t  it?”  Brender 
ground  out.  “Get  over  into  the  en- 
gine room,  you  damned  thing,  into 
the  vat!” 

“Go  on,  go  on!”  Hughes  was 
screaming  from  the  telescreen. 

Brender  fired  again.  The  creature 
made  a horrible  slobbering  sound, 
and  retreated  once  more.  But  it  was 
bigger  again,  more  human;  and  in 
one  caricature  hand  a caricature  of 
Brender’s  revolver  was  growing. 

It  raised  the  unfinished,  unformed 
gun.  There  was  an  explosion,  and  a 
shriek  from  the  thing.  The  revolver 
fell,  a shapeless,  tattered  blob,  to  the 
floor.  The  little  gray  mass  of  it 
scrambled  frantically  toward  the 
parent  body,  and  attached  itself  like 
some  monstrous  canker  to  the  right 
foot. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  the 
mighty  and  evil  brains  that  had 
created  the  thing,  sought  to  dominate 
their  robot.  Furious,  yet  conscious 
that  the  game  must  be  carefully 
played,  the  Controller  forced  the  ter- 
rified and  utterly  beaten  thing  to  its 
will.  Scream  after  agonized  scream 
rent  the  air,  as  the  change  was  forced 


upon  the  unstable  elements.  In  an 
instant,  the  thing  stood  in  the  shape 
of  Brender,  but  instead  of  a revolver, 
there  grew  from  one  browned,  power- 
ful hand  a pencil  of  shining  metal. 
Mirror  bright,  it  glittered  in  every 
facet  like  some  incredible  gem. 

The  metal  glowed  ever  so  faintly, 
an  unearthly  radiance.  And  where 
the  radio  had  been,  and  the  screen 
with  Hughes’  face  on  it,  there  was  a 
gaping  hole.  Desperately,  Brender 
pumped  bullets  into  the  body  before 
him,  but  though  the  shape  trembled, 
it  stared  at  him  now,  unaffected.  The 
shining  weapon  swung  toward  him. 

“When  you  are  quite  finished,”  it 
said,  “perhaps  we  can  talk.” 

It  spoke  so  mildly  that  Brender, 
tensing  to  meet  death,  lowered  his 
gun  in  amazement.  The  thing  went 
on: 

“Do  not  be  alarmed.  This  which 
you  hear  and  see  is  a robot,  designed 
by  us  to  cope  with  your  space  and 
number  world.  Several  of  us  are 
working  here  under  the  most  difficult 
conditions  to  maintain  this  connec- 
tion, so  I must  be  brief. 

“We  exist  in  a time  world  im- 
measurably more  slow  than  your 
own.  By  a system  of  synchroniza- 
tion, we  have  geared  a number  of 
these  spaces  in  such  fashion  that, 
though  one  of  our  days  is  millions  of 
your  years,  we  can  communicate. 
Our  purpose  is  to  free  our  colleague, 
Kalorn,  from  the  Martian  vault. 
Kalorn  was  caught  accidentally  in  a 
time  warp  of  his  own  making  and 
precipitated  onto  the  planet  you 
know  as  Mars.  The  Martians,  need- 
lessly fearing  his  great  size,  con- 
structed a most  diabolical  prison,  and 
we  need  your  knowledge  of  the 
mathematics  peculiar  to  your  space 
and  number  world — and  to  it  alone 
— in  order  to  free  him.” 

The  calm  voice  continued,  earnest 
but  not  offensively  so,  insistent  but 


VAULT  OF.  THE  BEAST 


65 


friendly.  He  regretted  that  their  robot 
had  killed  human  beings.  In  greater 
detail,  he  explained  that  every  space 
was  constructed  on  a different  num- 
bers system,  some  all  negative,  some 
all  positive,  some  a mixture  of  the 
two,  the  whole  an  infinite  variety, 
and  every  mathematic  interwoven 
into  the  very  fabric  of  the  space  it 
ruled. 

Ieis  force  was  not  really  mysteri- 
ous. It  was  simply  a flow  from  one 
space  to  another,  the  result  of  a dif- 
ference in  potential.  This  flow,  how- 
ever, was  one  of  the  universal  forces, 
which  only  one  other  force  could  af- 
fect, the  one  he  had  used  a few  min- 
utes before.  Ultimate  metal  was 
actually  ultimate. 

In  their  space  they  had  a similar 
metal,  built  up  from  negative  atoms. 
He  could  see  from  Brender’s  mind 
that  the  Martians  had  known  noth- 
ing about  minus  numbers,  so  that 
they  must  have  built  it  up  from  or- 
dinary atoms.  It  could  be  done  that 
way,  too,  though  not  so  easily.  He 
finished: 

“The  problem  narrows  down  to 
this:  Your  mathematic  must  tell  us 
how,  with  our  universal  force,  we  can 
short-circuit  the  ultimate  prime  num- 
ber— that  is,  factor  it — so  that  the 
door  will  open  any  time.  You  may 
ask  how  a prime  can  be  factored 
when  it  is  divisible  only  by  itself  and 
by  one.  That  problem  is,  for  your 
system,  solvable  only  by  your  mathe- 
matics. Will  you  do  it?” 

Brender  realized  with  a start 
that  he  was  still  holding  his  revolver. 
He  tossed  it  aside.  His  nerves  were 
calm  as  he  said: 

“Everything  you  have  said  sounds 
reasonable  and  honest.  If  you  were 
desirous  of  making  trouble,  it  would 
be  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  to 
send  as  many  of  your  kind  as  you 
wished.  Of  course,  the  whole  affair 


must  be  placed  before  the  Council- — ” 
“Then  it  is  hopeless — the  Council 
could  not  possibly  accede — ” 

“And  you  expect  me  to  do  what 
you  do  not  believe  the  highest  gov- 
ernmental authority  in  the  System 
would  do?”  Brender  exclaimed. 

“It  is  inherent  in  the  nature  of  a 
democracy  that  it  cannot  gamble 
with  the  lives  of  its  citizens.  We 
have  such  a government  here;  and  its 
members  have  already  informed  us 
that,  in  a similar  condition,  they 
would  not  consider  releasing  an  un- 
known beast  upon  their  people.  In- 
dividuals, however,  can  gamble 
where  governments  must  not.  You 
have  agreed  that  our  argument  is 
logical.  What  system  do  men  follow 
if  not  that  of  logic?” 

The  Controller,  through  its  robot, 
watched  Brender’s  thoughts  alertly. 
It  saw  doubt  and  uncertainty,  op- 
posed by  a very  human  desire  to 
help,  based  upon  the  logical  convic- 
tion that  it  was  safe.  Probing  his 
mind,  it  saw  swiftly  that  it  was  un- 
wise, in  dealing  with  men,  to  trust 
too  much  to  logic.  It  pressed  on: 
“To  an  individual  we  can  offer — 
everything.  In  a minute,  with  your 
permission,  we  shall  transfer  this  ship 
to  Mars;  not  in  thirty  days,  but  in 
thirty  seconds.  The  knowledge  of 
how  this  is  done  will  remain  with 
you.  Arrived  at  Mars,  you  will  find 
yourself  the  only'  living  person  who 
knows  the  whereabouts  of  the  ancient 
city  of  Li,  of  which  the  vault  of  the 
beast  is  the  central  tower.  In  this 
city  will  be  found  literally  billions 
of  dollars’  worth  of  treasure  made  of 
ultimate  metal;  and  according  to  the 
laws  of  Earth,  fifty  percent  will  be 
yours.  Your  fortune  re-established, 
you  will  be  able  to  return  to  Earth 
this  very  day,  and  reclaim  your  for- 
mer wife,  and  your  position.  Poor 
silly  child,  she  loves  you  still,  but 
the  iron  conventions  and  training  of 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


her  youth  leave  her  no  alternative. 
If  she  were  older,  she  would  have  the 
character  to  defy  those  conventions. 
You  must  save  her  from  herself. 
Will  you  do  it?” 

Brender  was  as  white  as  a sheet, 
his  hands  clenching  and  unclenching. 
Malevolently,  the  thing  watched  the 
Haming  thought  sweeping  through 
bis  brain — the  memory  of  a pudgy 
white  hand  closing  over  Pamela’s 
fingers,  watched  the  reaction  of  Bren- 
der to  its  words,  those  words  that 
expressed  exactly  what  he  had  al- 
ways thought.  Brender  looked  up 
with  tortured  eyes. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  “I’ll  do  what  I 
can.” 

A bleak  range  of  mountains  fell 
away  into  a valley  of  reddish  gray 
sand.  The  thin  winds  of  Mars  blew 
a mist  of  sand  against  the  building. 

Such  a building!  At  a distance,  it 
had  looked  merely  big.  A bare  hun- 
dred feet  projected  above  the  desert, 
n hundred  feet  of  length  and  fifteen 
hundred  feet  of  diameter.  Literally 
thousands  of  feet  must  extend  be- 
neath the  restless  ocean  of  sand  to 
make  the  perfect  balance  of  form, 
the  graceful  flow,  the  fairylike 
beauty,  which  the  long-dead  Mar- 
tians demanded  of  all  their  construc- 
tions, however  massive.  Brender  felt 
suddenly  small  and  insignificant  as 
the  rockets  of  his  spacesuit  pounded 
him  "along  a few  feet  above  the  sand 
toward  that  incredible  building. 

At  close  range  the  ugliness  of  sheer 
size  was  miraculously  lost  in  the 
wealth  of  the  decorative.  Columns 
and  pilasters  assembled  in  groups 
and  clusters,  broke  up  the  facades, 
gathered  and  dispersed  again  rest- 
lessly. The  flat  surfaces  of  wall  and 
roof  melted  into  a wealth  of  orna- 
ments and  imitation  stucco  work, 
vanished  and  broke  into  a play  of 
light  and  shade. 


The  creature  floated  beside  Bren- 
der; and  its  Controller  said:  “I  see 

that  you  have  been  giving  considera- 
ble thought  to  the  problem,  but  this 
robot  seems  incapable  of  following 
abstract  thoughts,  so  I have  no 
means  of  knowing  the  course  of  your 
speculations.  I see  however  that  you 
seem  to  be  satisfied.” 

“I  think  I’ve  got  the  answer,”  said 
Brender,  “but  first  I wish  to  see  the 
time  lock.  Let’s  climb.” 

They  rose  into  the  sky,  dipping 
over  the  lip  of  the  building.  Brender 
saw  a vast  flat  expanse;  and  in  the 
center — He  caught  his  breath! 

The  meager  light  from  the  distant 
sun  of  Mars  shone  down  on  a struc- 
ture located  at  what  seemed  the 
exact  center  of  the  great  door.  The 
structure  was  about  fifty  feet  high, 
and  seemed  nothing  less  than  a series 
of  quadrants  coming  together  at  the 
center,  which  was  a metal  arrow 
pointing  straight  up. 

The  arrow  head  was  not  solid 
metal.  Rather  it  was  as  if  the  metal 
had  divided  in  two  parts,  then  curved 
together  again.  But  not  quite  to- 
gether. About  a foot  separated  the 
two  sections  of  metal.  But  that  foot 
was  bridged  by  a vague,  thin,  green 
flame  of  ieis  force. 

“The  time  lock!”  Brender  nodded. 
“I  thought  it  would  be  something 
like  that,  though  I expected  it  would 
be  bigger,  more  substantial.” 

“Do  not  be  deceived  by  its  fragile 
appearance,”  answered  the  thing. 
"Theoretically,  the  strength  of  ulti- 
mate metal  is  infinite;  and  the  ieis 
force  can  only  be  affected  by  the  uni- 
versal I have  mentioned.  Exactly 
what  the  effect  will  be,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say  as  it  involves  the  tem- 
porary derangement  of  the  whole 
number  system  upon  which  that  par- 
ticular area  of  space  is  built.  But 
now  tell  us  what  to  do.” 

“Very  well.”  Brender  eased  him- 


VAULT  OP  THE  BEAST 


67 


self  onto  a bank  of  sand,  and  cut  off 
his  antigravity  plates.  He  lay  on  his 
back,  and  stared  thoughtfully  into 
the  blue-black  sky.  For  the  time 
being  all  doubts,  worries  and  fears 
were  gone  from  him,  forced  out  by 
sheer  will  power.  He  began  to  ex- 
plain: 

“The  Martian  mathematic,  like 
that  of  Euclid  and  Pythagoras,  was 
based  on  endless  magnitude.  Minus 
numbers  were  beyond  their  philoso- 
phy. On  Earth,  however,  beginning 
with  Descartes,  an  analytical  mathe- 
matic was  evolved.  Magnitude  and 
perceivable  dimensions  were  replaced 
by  that  of  variable  relation-values 
between  positions  in  space. 

“For  the  Martians,  there  was  only 
one  number  between  1 and  3.  Actu- 
ally, the  totality  of  such  numbers  is 
an  infinite  aggregate.  And  with  the 
introduction  of  the  idea  of  the  square 
root  of  minus  one — or  i — and  the 
complex  numbers,  mathematics  defi- 
nitely ceased  to  be  a simple  thing 
of  magnitude,  perceivable  in  pic- 
tures. Only  the  intellectual  step 
from  the  infinitely  small  quantity  to 
the  lower  limit  ofcevery  possible  finite 
magnitude  brought  out  the  concep- 
tion of  a variable  number  which 
oscillated  beneath  any  assignable 
number  that  was  not  zero. 

“The  prime  number,  being  a con- 
ception of  pure  magnitude,  had  no 


reality  in  real  mathematics,  but  in 
this  case  was  rigidly  bound  up  with 
the  reality  of  the  ieis  force.  The 
Martians  knew  ieis  as  a pale-green 
flow  about  a foot  in  length  and  de- 
veloping say  a thousand  horsepower. 
(It  was  actually  12.171  inches'  and 
1021.23  horsepower,  but  that  was 
unimportant.)  The  power  produced 
never  varied,  the  length  never  varied, 
from  year  end  to  year  end,  for  tens 
of  thousands  of  years.  The  Martians 
took  the  length  as  their  basis  of 
measurement,  and  called  it  one  ‘el’; 
they  took  the  power  as  their  basis 
of  power  and  called  it  one  ‘rb.’  And 
because  of  the  absolute  invariability 
of  the  flow  they  knew  it  was  eternal.. 

“They  knew  furthermore  that 
nothing  could  be  eternal  without  be- 
ing prime;  their  whole  mathematic 
was  based  on  numbers  which  could 
be  factored,  that  is,  disintegrated,  de- 
stroyed,  rendered  less  than  they  had 
been;  and  numbers  which  could  not 
be  factored,  disintegrated  or  divided 
into  smaller  groups. 

“Any  number  which  could  be  fac- 
tored was  incapable  of  being  infinite. 
Contrariwise,  the  infinite  number 
must  be  prime. 

“Therefore,  they  built  a lock  and 
integrated  it  along  a line  of  ieis,  to 
operate  when  the  ieis  ceased  to  flow 
— which  would  be  at  the  end  of  Time, 


STAR 


WORLDS 
LARGEST  SELLING 
SINGLE  EDGE  BLADE 


AST— 5 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


provided  it  was  not  interfered  with. 
To  prevent  interference,  they  buried 
the  motivating  mechanism  of  the 
flow  in  ultimate  metal,  which  could 
not  be  destroyed  or  corroded  in  any 
way.  According  to  their  mathematic, 
that  settled  it.” 

“But  you  have  the  answer,”  said 
the  voice  of  the  thing  eagerly. 

“Simply  this:  The  Martians  set  a 
value  on  the  flow  of  one  ‘rb.’  If  you 
interfere  with  that  flow  to  no  matter 
what  small  degree,  you  no  longer 
have  an  ‘rb.’  You  have  something 
less.  The  flow,  which  is  a universal, 
becomes  automatically  less  than  a 
universal,  less  than  infinite.  The 
prime  number  ceases  to  be  prime. 
Let  us  suppose  that  you  interfere 
with  it  to  the  extent  of  infinity  minus 
one.  You  will  then  have  a number 
divisible  by  two.  As  a matter  of 
fact,  the  number,  like  most  large 
numbers,  will  immediately  break  into 
thousands  of  pieces,  i.  e.,  it  will  be 
divisible  by  tens  of  thousands  of 
smaller  numbers.  If  the  present  time 
falls  anywhere  near  one  of  those- 
breaks,  the  door  would  open  then. 
In  other  words,  the  door  will  open 
immediately  if  you  jean  so  interfere 
with  the  flow  that  one  of  the  factors 
occurs  in  immediate  time.” 

“That  is  very  clear,”  said  the  Con- 
troller with  satisfaction  and  the 
image  of  Brender  was  smiling  tri- 
umphantly. “We  shall  now  use  this 
robot  to  manufacture  a universal; 
and  Kalorn  shall  be  free  very 
shortly.”  He  laughed  aloud.  “The 
poor  robot  is  protesting  violently  at 
the  thought  of  being  destroyed,  but 
after  all  it  is  only  a machine,  and  not 
a very  good  one  at  that.  Besides,  it 
is  interfering  with  my  proper  recep- 
tion of  your  thoughts.  Listen  to  it 
scream,  as  I twist  it  into  shape.” 

The  cold-blooded  words  chilled 
Brender,  pulled  him  from  the  heights 


of  his  abstract  thought.  Because  of 
the  prolonged  intensity  of  his  think- 
ing, he  saw  with  sharp  clarity  some- 
thing that  had  escaped  him  before. 

“Just  a minute,”  he  said.  “How  is 
it  that  the  robot,  introduced  from 
your  world,  is  living  at  the  same  time 
rate  as  I am,  whereas  Kalorn  con- 
tinues to  live  at  your  time  rate?” 

“A  very  good  question.”  The  face 
of  the  robot  was  twisted  into  a tri- 
umphant sneer,  as  the  Controller 
continued.  “Because,  my  dear  Bren- 
der, you  have  been  duped.  It  is  true 
that  Kalorn  is  living  in  our  time 
rate,  but  that  was  due  to  a short- 
coming in  our  machine.  The  ma- 
chine. which  Kalorn  built,  while  large 
enough  to  transport  him,  was  not 
large  enough  in  its  adaptive  mechan- 
ism to  adapt  him  to  each  new  space 
as  he  entered  it.  With  the  result 
that  he  was  transported  but  not 
adapted.  It  was  possible  of  course 
for  us,  his  helpers,  to  transport  such 
a small  thing  as  the  robot,  though  we 
have  no  more  idea  of  the  machine’s 
construction  than  you  have. 

“In  short,  we  can  use  what  there 
is  of  the  machine,  but  the  secret  of 
its  construction  is  locked  in  the  in- 
sides of  our  own  particular  ultimate 
metal,  and  in  the  brain  of  Kalorn. 
Its  invention  by  Kalorn  was  one  of 
those  accidents  which,  by  the  law  of 
averages,  will  not  be  repeated  in  mil- 
lions of  our  years.  Now,  that  you 
have  provided  us  with  the  method  of 
bringing  Kalorn  back,  we  shall  be 
able  to  build  innumerable  interspace 
machines.  Our  purpose  is  to  control 
all  spaces,  all  worlds — particularly 
those  which  are  inhabited.  We  in- 
tend to  be  absolute  rulers  of  the  en- 
tire Universe.” 

The  ironic  voice  ended;  and  Bren- 
der lay  in  his  prone  position  the  prey 
of  horror.  The  horror  was  twofold, 
partly  due  to  the  Controller’s  mon- 
strous plan,  and  partly  due  to  the 


VAULT  OF  THE  BEAST 


69 


thought  that  was  pulsing  in  his  brain. 
He  groaned,  as  he  realized  that  warn- 
ing thought  must  be  ticking  away  on 
the  automatic  receiving  brain  of  the 
robot.  “Wait,”  his  thought  was  say- 
ing, “that  adds  a new  factor. 
Time—” 

There  was  a scream  from  the  crea- 
ture as  it  was  forcibly  dissolved.  The 
scream  choked  to  a sob,  then  silence. 
An  intricate  machine  of  shining 
metal  lay  there  on  that  great  gray- 
brown  expanse  of  sand  and  ultimate 
metal. 

The  metal  glowed;  and  then  the 
machine  was  floating  in  the  air.  It 
rose  to  the  top  of  the  arrow,  and 
settled  over  the  green  flame  of  ieis. 

Brender  jerked  on  his  antigravity 
screen,  and  leaped  to  his  feet.  The 
violent  action  carried  him  some  hun- 
dred feet  into  the  air.  His  rockets 
sputtered  into  staccato  fire,  and  he 
clamped  his  teeth  against  the  pain  of 
acceleration. 

Below  him,  the  great  door  began 1 
to  turn,  to  unscrew',  faster  and  faster, 
till  it  was  like  a flywheel.  Sand  flew 
in  all  directions  in  a.  miniature  storm. 

At  top  acceleration,  Brender 
darted  to  one  side. 

•Just  in  time.  First,  the  robot  ma- 
chine was  flung  off  that  tremendous 
wheel  by  sheer  centrifugal  power. 
Then  the  door  came  off,  and,  spin- 
ning now  at  an  incredible  rate,  hur- 
tled straight  into  the  air,  and  van- 
ished into  space. 

A puff  of  black  dust  came  floating 
up  out  of  the  blackness  of  the  vault. 
Suppressing  his  horror,  yet  perspir- 
ing from  awful  relief,  he  rocketed  to 
where  the  robot  had  fallen  into  the 
sand. 

Instead  of  glistening  metal,  a time- 
dulled  piece  of  junk  lay  there.  The 
dull  metal  flowed  sluggishly  and  as- 
sumed a quasi-human  shape.  The 
flesh  remained  gray  and  in  little  rolls 


as  if  it  were  ready  to  fall  apart  from 
old  age.  The  thing  tried  to  stand  up 
on  wrinkled,  horrible  legs,  but  finally 
lay  still.  Its  lips  moved,  mumbled: 
“I  caught  your  warning  thought, 
but  I didn’t  let  them  know.  Now, 
Kalorn  is  dead.  They  realized  the 
truth  as  it  was  happening.  End  of 
Time  came — ” 

It  faltered  into  silence;  and  Bren- 
der went  on:  “Yes,  end  of  Time 

came  when  the  flow  became  momen- 
tarily less  than  eternal — came  at  the 
factor  point  which  occurred  a few 
minutes  ago.” 

“I  was  . . . only  partly  ... 
within  its  . . . influence,  Kalorn  all 
the  way.  . . . Even  if  they’re  lucky 
. . . will  be  years  before  . . . they 
invent  another  machine  . . . and 
one  of  their  years  is  billions  ...  of 
yours.  ...  I didn’t  tell  them.  . . . 
I caught  your  thought  . . . and  kept 
it  . . . from  them — ” 

“But  why  did  you  do  it?  Why?” 
“Because  they  were  hurting  me. 
They  were  going  to  destroy  me.  Be- 
cause ...  I liked  . . . being 
human.  I was  . . . somebody!” 
The  flesh  dissolved.  It  flowed 
slowly  into  a pool  of  lavalike  gray. 
The  lava  crinkled,  split  into  dry, 
brittle  pieces.  Brender  touched  one 
of  the  pieces.  It  crumbled  into  a 
fine  powder  of  gray  dust.  He  gazed 
out  across  that  grim,  deserted  valley 
of  sand,  and  said  aloud,  pityingly: 
“Poor  Frankenstein.” 

He  turned  toward  the  distant 
spaceship,  toward  the  swift  trip  to 
Earth.  As  he  climbed  out  of  the  ship 
a few  minutes  later,  one  of  the  first 
persons  he  saw  was  Pamela. 

She  flew  into  his  arms.  “Oh,  Jim, 
Jim,”  she  sobbed.  “What  a fool  I’ve 
been.  When  I heard  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  realized  you  were  in 
danger,  I — Oh,  Jim!” 

Later,  he  would  tell  her  about 
their  new  fortune. 


no 


Done  without  mm 

By  Philip  SI.  John 

Court  Perry'd  lost  his  space-ticket— the  greatest  of  the  pilots 
no  longer  allowed  to  pilot!  But  without  that  ticket — with 
certain  other  handicaps! — he  was  still  the  best  of  ’em  all! 

Illustrated  by  Schneeman 


Tub  triangulator  registered  eight 
thousand  miles  up  from  Earth, 
though,  naturally,  we  couldn’t  see 
the  old  ball  behind  us.  When  they 
built  the  Kickapoo  they  left  out  all 
windows,  and  covered  her  with  a 
new  laboratory  product  to  bounce 
back  hard  radiations,  which  is  why 
I have  a couple  of  normal  kids  in- 
stead of  half-monsters;  cosmic  rays 
just  love  to  play  around  with  a man’s 
genes  and  cause  mutations  if  they 
get  a chance.  Anyway,  the  spy  in- 
struments we  used  were  worth  a 
whole  factory  of  portholes. 

Captain  Lee  Rogers  ran  his  eyes 
over  the  raised  indicators  when  I 
signaled  that  we’d  made  one  diam- 
eter, and  found  them  all  grooved 
where  they  should  be.  He  pushed 
back  his  shoulders  and  tapped  down 
for  normal  space  acceleration  before 
swinging  around  to  face  me.  “They 
all  come  back,  Sammy,”  he  said,  for 
no  good  reason  I could  see.  “Once  a 
man’s  been  outside  the  atmosphere, 
you  can’t  keep  him  grounded.  Re- 
member Court  Perry?” 

How  could  I help  it,  with  some  of 
the  records  he’d  made  still  unbeaten? 
He’d  won  his  eagles  back  in  the  old 
quartz-window  days.  Then,  when 
they  built  the  Kickapoo  as  the  first 
blind  ship  and  made  him  captain, 
he’d  made  history  and  legends  for  six 
years,  until  even  the  die-hards  ad- 
mitted spy  instruments  worked,  and 


every  student  in  navigation  school 
with  marrying  ideas  darned  near 
worshiped  him.  After  that  his  land- 
ings and  take-offs  began  to  go  sour, 
and  got  worse  for  months.  They 
seemed  to  be  improving  again  at 
the  last,  but  it  was  too  late  then;  the 
officials  called  him  in  and  yanked 
his  eagles,  offering  him  an  office  job 
instead,  which  he  turned  down.  That 
had  been  five  years  before  and  no- 
body had  heard  a word  of  the  cap- 
tain since. 

“Sure,”  I told  Lee.  “It  was  be- 
fore I got  my  copilot  ticket  on  the 
Kickapoo,  but  they  gave  us  his  life 
for  inspirational  reading  in  naviga- 
tion school.  Why?” 

He  handed  me  over  a hen- 
scratched  paper  giving  the  passenger 
listings.  “Take  a look  at  the  angel 
roll.  The  steward  sent  it  up  for  my 
O.  K.  on  the  use  of  the  superdeck 
cabin.” 

“Inspector  eying  our  flare?”  The 
superdeck  cabin  is  reserved  for  offi- 
cials, usually,  and  lies  right  down  the 
hall  from  the  dugout — navigation 
room — next  to  the  captain  and  pi- 
lot’s quarters. 

Lee  shook  his  head.  “Free- wing 
angels.  We’re  carrying  a full  load 
this  trip,  and  they  came  aboard  with 
‘any  consideration  will  be  appreci- 
ated’ passes,  so  I had  to  0.  K.  it. 
You  might  read  it,  you  know.” 

It  was  an  idea,  though  I was  be- 


n 


I had  a vision  of  the  black  gang  going  after  that 
mutation — and  his  four  gorilla  arms  swinging! 


n 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


ginning  to  catch  on.  All  the  same, 
my  eyes  popped  when  I saw  the 
names  after  Cabin  0-A.  “Captain 
Courtney  R.  Perry,  Ret.,  and  Stan- 
ley N.  Perry,  M.  A.,  M.  M„  Ph.  D., 
F.  R.  P.  S.,  F.  R.  S.”  I read. 
“Hm-m-m.  So  he’s  come  out  of  the 
hole.  Who's  the  alphabet?” 

“Court  Perry’s  son,  and  that’s 
only  part  of  his  degrees  and  such. 
One  of  the  hard-radiation  mutes — 
mutation,  he  meant,  not  speechless — 
born  while  the  captain  was  on  the 
old  ships,  so  don’t  be  surprised  when 
you  see  him.  Claims  he’s  a super- 
man, and  maybe  he  is — Get  ready 
for  trouble,  Sammy.” 

“I  don’t  get  it.”  I’d  been  want- 
ing to  meet  Court  Perry  for  years, 
and  this  looked  like  a first-class  op- 
portunity to  me. 

Lee  grimaced.  “Naturally,  not 
knowing  him.  I was  his  pilot  be- 
fore they  sacked  him,  though,  and  I 
know  what  he’ll  think  of  another 
man  pushing  his  ship.  Inside  of  an 
hour,  you’ll  hear  a knock  on  the  door 
there,  and  won’t  have  to  guess  who 
it  is.” 

Lee  was  wrong,  partly.  It  wasn’t 
more  than  half  an  hour  before  the 
knock  came,  and  the  door  opened  to 
show  the  hugest  body  I’d  seen  on  a 
man  six  feet  tall  and  not  fat.  It  was 
topped  by  a head  that  was  simply 
magnificent;  beautiful  describes  it 
better  than  handsome.  And  below 
that — well,  the  man  had  four  arms, 
all  fully  developed,  and  muscled  like 
a gorilla’s,  with  long  hands  that 
ended  in  six  tapering  fingers  apiece. 
Apparently  the  double  shoulder  sys- 
tem left  no  room  for  a waist,  but  ran 
in  a straight  line  from  hips  up.  I 
must  have  gasped,  but  the  mute  took 
no  notice  of  it. 

“Hi,  Lee!  How’s  tricks?” 

Lee  gave  him  a rather  troubled 
grin  and  came  to  his  feet  to  grab 


one  of  the  arms.  “Not  bad,  Stan, 
though  the  two  of  you  might  have 
written  once  in  a while.  You’re  look- 
ing good.  How’s  Court?” 

“All  right,  I guess.”  He  swung  a 
couple  of  hands  in  an  uncertain  ges- 
ture that  gave  me  the  heebies.  “He 
wants  to  join  you  here  for  a while,  if 
you  don’t  mind.” 

“Afraid  I can’t.  The  rules  forbid 
passengers — ” 

“What’s  that?”  The  voice  rapped 
out  from  the  hall  and  swung  me 
around  to  face  a little,  thin  man  with 
a ramrod  down  his  back  and  a neat 
Vandyke  on  his  face.  He  looked  like 
the  sort  who’d  hit  heaven  and  been 
routed  through  hell  on  the  return 
ticket,  but  come  through  it.  Pride, 
authority,  and  indignation  were  all 
mixed,  and  another  expression  I 
couldn’t  quite  place.  Something 
about  him  made  me  pull  my  stom- 
ach in  and  come  to  attention,  even 
though  he  wasn’t  wearing  twin  eagles 
on  his  old  space  cap. 

“What’s  that,  Lee?”  he  rapped  out 
again,  pushing  forward  to  the  dug- 
out.  “When  have  I ever  been  an 
angel,  eh?  Don’t  be  an  ass!” 

. Lee’s  arm.  barred  his  way.  “Sorry, 
six-,  but  technically  you’re  arC  angel 
now.  The  rule  clearly  states  that 
no  passengers  are  to  be  admitted  to 
navigation  or  engine  rooms  under 
any  circumstances.  You  taught  me 
those  rules  were  to  be  obeyed!” 

“I  taught  you  not  to  be  a blamed 
fool!  Out  of  my  wav,  Lee.  I’m  com- 
ing in.  I want  to  find  out  what’s 
happened  to  my  ship  while  you’ve 
been  running  it.  Stan,  make  way 
for  me!” 

Stan  started  forward,  and  I didn’t 
like  the  look  of  th^se  bulking  shoul- 
ders, but  Lee  waved  him  back  with 
a sharp  gesture.  There  were  little 
creases  torturing  his  forehead,  and 
the  muscles  along  his  jaw  stood  out 
sharply.  “Sorry,  Captain  Perry. 


DONE  WITHOUT  EAGLES 


73 


I’m  wearing  the  eagles  on  this  ship. 
Return  to  your  quarters!”  . 

For  only  a fraction  of  a second. 
Court  Perry  winced,  and  then  his 
face  froze  into  a blank.  “Very  good, 
Captain  Rogers!”  he  said  precisely, 
coming  to  salute.  He  executed  a 
rightabout-face  with  a snap  and 
marched  down  the  hall,  fingering  the 
place  where  the  eagles  should  have 
been,  Stan  following. 

I swung  on  Lee.  “Good  Lord, 
man,  did  you  have  to — ” 

“I  had  to.”  The  cigarette  in  his 
hands  was  mashed  to  a pulp,  andjie 
tossed  it  away  savagely,  fiddling 
with  the  controls,  while  the  air  ma- 
chine clicked  out  the  only  noises  in 
the  -room  and  I made  myself  busy 
with  charts.  Finally  he  shrugged 
and  reached  for  another  cigarette. 

“Court  Perry  dug  me  out  of  an 
orphanage,  Sammy,  put  me  through 
navigation  school,  and  taught  me  all 
he  knew  about  running  tbe  Kicka- 
poo.  He’s — ” Lee  stopped  and 
looked  to  see  how  I was  taking  it. 
“All  right,  I suppose  it  does  make 
me  seem  an  ungrateful  pup.  But  if 
I’d  broken  that  rule  or  let  him  over- 
ride my  authority,  he’d  have  hated 
me  for  a weakling  and  himself  for 
having  failed  with  me.  Now  let’s 
forget  it  and  wait  for  his  next  move. 
He  won’t  give  up  on  the  first  try.” 
He  didn’t.  Almost  as  Lee  finished 
speaking,  the  etherphone  ikked  from 
behind  the  controls,  and  I jumped 
to  answer  it.  “ ‘Lee  Rogers,’  ” I read 
as  it  came  over,  “ ‘captain,  Kicka- 
poo:  Captain  Courtney  Perry  and 
son  are  to  have  full  freedom  of  ship. 
Signed,  Redman,  president — -’ 

Mow’d  they  get  word  through  with- 
out sending  on  our  transmitter?” 
“Probably  Stan  built  a sender 
from  the  pile  of  gadgets  he  always 
carries  along.” 

“In  fifteen  minutes?” 
“Um-hm-m-m.  He  does  those 


things  when  he  wants  to.  I’ve  seen 
him  take  a computator  apart  and 
reassemble  it  in  ten.”  Lee  glanced 
at  the  clock  and  slid  off  the  throne. 
“Take  over.  So  Court  still  has  pull 
in  the  office,  it  seems.  Redman  had 
no  business  interfering;  we’re  in 
space  and  my  word  is  supposed  to 
be  final.  Nothing  I can  do  about  it, 
though.  Come  in!” 

The  door  snapped  open  to  show 
Court  Perry  standing  with  his  feet 
exactly  on  the  imaginary  line  of  the 
dugout,  Stan  behind  him.  He  came 
to  rigid  attention  and  saluted  stiffly. 
Lee  returned  it.  “The  freedom  of 
the  ship  is  yours,  Captain  Perry,” 
he  acknowledged.  “Sammy,  see  that 
Captain  Perry  is  provided  with  a set 
of  master  keys  to  the  lower  decks.” 

“Thank  you.  Captain  Rogers.” 
Court’s  square  shoulders  were  per- 
haps a trifle  farther  back  as  he 
stepped  over  the  line  and  approached 
the  control  seat.  He  reached  out  as 
I slid  up  to  let  him  take  it,  then 
hesitated.  “With  your  permission, 
sir.” 

“Permission  granted.”  It  was  the 
first  time  I’d  seen  formality  in  space, 
and  I felt  awkward  as  a two-tailed 
comet  between  them.  Lee  disap- 
peared around  the  panel  to  the  ether- 
phone  cubbyhole  with  a handful  of 
miscellaneous  and  unrelated  charts 
in  his  hands. 

As  Court  took  the  seat  I had  va- 
cated the  huge  bulk  of  Stan  moved 
in  front  of  me,  cutting  off  my  view. 
He  was  almost  too  big  for  tbe  little 
room.  But  I could  hear  the  faint 
sounds  of  the  old  man’s  fingers  on 
the  panel,  as  he  tested  it  bit  by  bit. 
He  grunted  once  or  twice,  and  Stan 
seemed  to  mutter  something,  then 
-twitched  his  arms  slightly  and  looked 
around.  Court  got  up. 

“Copilot — Sammy’s  the  name, 
isn’t  it?  Good.”  He  nodded  faintly 


74 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


at  that.  “Sammy,  where  are  the 
testing  instruments?  I used  to  keep 
them  under  the  panel,  but  appar- 
ently they’re  no  longer  there.” 

“We  don’t  carry  testers,  sir;  at 
least,  I’ve  never  seen  any.” 

“No  testers,  eh?”  He  swallowed 
it  carefully,  then  tossed  his  voice 
over  the  instrument  panel.  “Cap- 
tain Rogers,  your  copilot  informs  me 
there  are  no  instrument  testers.  Is 
that  correct?” 

Lee’s  voice  bounced  back  at  him. 
“It  is.  Captain  Perry.  Under  the 
new  regulations,  we’re  checked  over 
at  both  ends,  and  no  tests  are  made 
in  space.  That  system  has  proved 
entirely  satisfactory.” 

“Hm-m-m.  I distinctly  remember 
explaining  to  you  the  reasons  for 
space  tests.  Take-off  accelerations 
sometimes  jar  loose  a delicate  con- 
trol, and  furthermore,  ground  men 
are  sometimes  careless;  they’re  not 
trained  in  actual  flight  conditions, 
and  their  lives  aren’t  involved.  I 
advise  an  immediate  test  of  your  in- 
struments. Hull  Indicator  C re- 
sponds slowly,  and  the  meteor  re- 
peller  itself  may  be  at  fault  instead 
of  the  indicator.” 

“Sorry,  sir,  that’s  impossible.  We 
have  no  testers.” 

Court  grimaced  at  that.  “Your 
engine-room  testers  can  be  adapted. 
I believe  I also  taught  you  how  that 
was  done.” 

“Sorry,  Captain  Perry,”  Lee  de- 
cided positively.  “I  don’t  consider 
such  measures  necessary  under  the 
present  regulations.” 

Seeing  the  uselessness  of  argu- 
ment, Court  shrugged.  “Take  over, 
Sammy,”  he  said,  relinquishing  the 
controls.  “And  if  he’ll  listen,  you 
might  remind  Captain  Rogers  that 
Mars  lies  in  the  region  of  the  Little 
Swarm  now.  Meteors — even  pea- 
nut-sized ones — aren’t  pleasant  com- 


pany when  the  hull  repellers  are  out 
of  order.  Now,  if  I could  have  those 
keys — ” 

When  the  door  closed  again,  Lee 
came  out  of  the  hole.  “Easier  than 
I thought — Hm-m-m.  Nothing 
wrong  with  C indicator  that  I can 
see.  It  answers  to  a change  in  the 
hull  charge  perfectly.  Wonder  what 
happens  next.” 

Nothing  really  happened  for  a 
while,  except  that  Stan  and  Court 
were  poking  over  the  ship  in  a meth- 
odless hunt  for  inefficiency.  It  was 
just  that  something  was  in  the  air, 
an  unpleasantness  that  traveled  from 
the  control  room  down  to  the  crew 
deck,  and  finally  hit  the  passengers. 
But  any  Ifttle  thing  in  space  does 
that,  and  the  old  customers  of  the 
line  shrugged  and  forgot  it,  a,s  much 
as  they  could.  Court  wandered 
about  the  ship  with  Stan  at  his  heels, 
but  I could  see  no  particular  point 
to  his  activities. 

I was  off  duty  on  a prowl  when 
the  first  trouble  came.  Down  from 
the  cook’s  galley  came  a caterwaul- 
ing and  sounds  of  some  sort  of  scrap, 
with  the  shrill  yelps  of  the  little 
cOok  predominating.  As  I bounced 
around  a corner,  I saw  Tony  leave 
the  deck  in  a flying  leap  and  plunge 
toward  the  entrance  of  his  domain. 

Then  one  of  Stan’s  big  arms  came 
out  carelessly  and  caught  him  in 
midair.  “Naughty  boy,”  the  mute 
said  softly.  “You’ll  hurt  yourself 
trying  that.  Lucky  I was  here  to 
catch  you.”  He  held  the  cook  easily, 
while  the  little  man  squirmed  and 
fumed  helplessly. 

“What’s  going  on  here?”  I wanted 
to  know.  Tony  swung  away  at  the 
sound  of  my  voice  and  bounced  up 
and  down  before  me. 

“Mr.  Noyes,  you  gotta  help  me, 
you  gotta!  They  steal  my  galley; 


DONE  WITHOUT  EAGLES 


75 


they  snoop  all  over;  they  won’t  let 
me  work.  How  can  I cook  without 
I get  in?  Get  ’em  out,,  Mr.  Noyes, 
kill  ’em,  lock  ’em  in  irons.  Oh,  Santa 
Maria,  I’ll  kill  ’em  so  dead!  Alla 
my  help’s  in  there,  and  I ain’t  tell- 
ing ’em  what  to  do!  They’ll  spoil 
the  dinner.  Get  away  from  my  gal- 
ley, you  bums,  or  I make  soup  outa 
you  both!  Spoil  my  dinner,  I feed 
you  to  pigs!  Mr.  Noyes,  you  gotta 
get  ’em  out.” 

Stan  grinned  at  me  and  winked, 
which  was  my  first  indication  that 
he  had  a sense  of  humor  of  some 
sort.  “Tony’s  a little  overenthusi- 
astic,  Sammy.  Don’t  mind  him.” 
He\ caught  one  of  the  little  man’s 
flailing  fists  and  drew  him  close,  pat- 
ting his  head.  “Sh,  Tony.  Dad 
decided  to  investigate  the  galley,  so 
we  dropped  down.  Tony  came  in 
just;  as  we  were  looking  over  his  pans, 
and  set  up  a squawk.  When  he 
grabbed  a butcher  knife  and  came 
at  us,  I had  to  put  him  out.  Fin- 
ished in  there,  dad?” 

“All  finished.”  Court  appeared  in 
the  door.  “Tony!” 

The  tone  of  voice  cut  through 
Tony’s  indignation  and  left  the  cook 
at  a limp  attention. 

“Yes — sir?” 

“Tony,  you  use  too  much  grease, 
and  you  don’t  clean  your  pans  often 
enough!  Look  at  that!”  He  held 
out  a frying  pan  with  a thin  coat  of 
oil  on  the  bottom.  “That  carries 
one  meal’s  flavor  over  to  the  next 
food.  I’ve  found  grease  on  your 
griddles,  too,  thick  enough  to  come 
off  on  my  finger  and  half  stale.  Any- 
thing to  say  about  it?” 

“That  new  helper,”  Tony  sug- 
gested weakly.  “Musta  been  the 
new  helper!” 

“So?  Then  teach  that  new  helper 
to  keep  clean  pans.  I don’t  like  in- 
digestion. All  right,  back  to  your 


work!  Hello,  Sammy.  Any  objec- 
tions from  headquarters?” 

“Not  this  time,  sir.”  I suppose 
Lee  would  have  objected,  but  Lee 
didn’t  need  to  know.  After  all,  there 
had  been  a slightly  off  taste  to  the 
food  this  voyage,  and  I didn’t  have 
much  use  for  Tony’s  treatment  of  his 
assistants,  anyway. 

Court  smiled,  apparently  in  the 
best  of  spirits  after  his  conquest  of 
the  galley.  “Fine.  I don’t  suppose 
Captain  Lee  has  followed  my  ad- 
vice, eh?  . . . No,  I thought  not. 
Thinks  I’m  a meddling  old  fool  who 
had  no  business  going  over  his  head 
Pigheaded — made  him  that  way,  I 
guess.  Needs  an  accident  to  teach 
him  good  sense — and  he’ll  get  it,  or 
I’m  mistaken.  Damn!” 

He  caught  his  foot  against  a swab- 
ber’s kit  and  lurched  forward,  grab- 
bing at  a handrail  to.  regain  his  bal- 
ance. “Who  left  that  . . . that 
bucket  in  the  middle  of  a man’s  way? 
Rollins  still  bossing  the  middle 
decks?  A fine  way  to  run  a ship! 
You  go  on  with  Sammy,  Stan.  I’m 
seeing  Rollins.” 

“Don’t  want  me  to  go  with  you, 
dad?” 

“No,  I won’t  need  you.  Rollins 
knows  me  well  enough  to  behave 
himself.  Swab  pails  in  the  middle 
of  the  deck!”  He  went  stumbling  off 
toward  the  stairs  that  led  to  the 
crew  quarters,  carrying  himself  on 
parade  dress.  Stan  and  I turned  up 
to  the  superdeck.  He  began  filling 
his  pipe  with  three  hands,  while  I 
watched  in  fascinated  silence  until  it 
was  finished,  and  he  turned  back  to 
me. 

“Dad’s  quite  a remarkable  man, 
Sammy,”  he  said.  “You’re  not  get- 
ting a very  good  slant  on  him,  I sup- 
pose, but  if  you  knew  him  better 
you’d  find  it  isn’t  prejudice  on  my 
part — I have  no  prejudices.” 


76 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


“I’ve  seen  one  thing,”  I agreed. 
“He’s  the  only  man  I ever  knew  who 
could  be  thoroughly  provoked  with 
the  captain  and  not  take  it  out  on 
the  copilot  as  well.  It’s  a pity  he 
and  Lee  can’t  get  together.” 

The  mute  threw  open  the  door  of 
his  cabin  and  motioned  me  in. 
“Make  yourself  comfortable.  I 
wouldn’t  worry  about  Lee  and  dad, 
fellow.  They  both  put  a ship’s  com- 
mand above  Heaven  and  Earth,  but 
that’ll  be  finished  the  minute  we 
dock.  Anyway,  it’s  sort  of  a fare- 
well fling  for  dad,  so  he’s  making  the 
most  of  it.” 

“How  do  you  mean,  farewell  trip? 
Thanks, 'yes.”  The  wine  he  brought 
out  of  some  little  gadget  was  icy 
cold  and  delicious.  He  sampled  his 
own  before  replying. 

"Heart  trouble,  they  told  him. 
When  he  found  out,  he  decided  to 
make  one  more  trip  in  the  Kickapoo 
and  settle  down  on  Mars.  No  dying 
on  Earth  for  him.  Keep  this  under 
your  hat — Lee’s  not  to  know — but 
the  chances  are  all  against  his  living 
another  year.  So  I left  the  wife  and 
kids  behind  and  came  along.” 

"The  wife  and  kids?”  It  had 
caught  me  off  guard,  and  I blurted 
out  the  question  like  a darned  fool. 

There  was  a grin  on  his  face  then. 
“Sure,  I’m  married,  and  there  are 
four  children  back  in  dad’s  old  house 
— all  like  me.  I’m  a true  mutation, 
you  know;  pass  on  my  differences  to 
any  children.  It’s  my  duty  to  con- 
tinue my  strain;  otherwise  the  hu- 
man race  may  have  to  wait  a few 
thousand  more  years  for  another  su- 
perman.” 

There  was  certainly  no  false  mod- 
esty about  him;  neither  was  his  tone 
boasting.  About  all  I could  say  to 
that  was  a grunt. 

He  grinned  again.  “It’s  the  truth, 
Sammy,  so  why  should  I deny  it?  I 


look  strange  to  you,  but  you  must 
admit  I have  advantages  physically; 
among  others,  I’m  practically  im- 
mune to  all  diseases.  I finished  high 
school  and  college  in  the  absolute 
minimum  time.  I got  the  ‘F.  R. 
P.  S.’  after  my  name  for  working  out 
a process  for  grinding  lenses  in  a true 
parabola  to  an  accuracy  of  one  mole- 
cule’s thickness — using  a colloidal 
abrasive  suspended  in  air,  and  con- 
trolled by  the  irregularities  them- 
selves; that  was  something  they  said 
couldn’t  be  done.  Want  more 
proof?” 

Something  suddenly  brought  me 
up  out  of  the  seat  and  toward  him, 
and  I could  feel  a flood  of  anger  run- 
ning through  me  at  his  egotism.  I 
hated  the  man  with  a red  blood  lust 
that  made  me  crouch  in  grim  deter- 
mination to  clutch  and  mangle  and 
bite.  Then,  as  quickly  as  it  had 
come,  it  was  gone,  and  I found  him 
laughing  at  me. 

“Telepathic  control,  Sammy,  so 
don’t  feel  foolish.  Convinced  of  my 
right  to  call  myself  super  now?” 

It  was  as  good  an  explanation  of 
his  ability  as  anything  else,  but  there 
were  still  angles  to  it.  “0.  K.,  you’re 
a superman.  But  why  aren’t  you 
out  turning  the  w7orld  over?  I’ve 
never  read  a superman  story  in 
which  the  fellow  minded  his  own 
business  like  the  average  man.” 

“You  won’t — it  isn’t  interesting 
that  way.  But  one  superman  in  a 
world  of  normal  men  isn’t  enough  to 
do  much.  His  best  bet  is  to  raise 
children  and  pass  it  on  until  only  the 
supermen  are  left — that’s  the  way 
nature  did  it.  I learned  early  to 
speak  and  act  like  a normal  man, 
whatever  differences  there  are  in  our 
way  of  thinking.  Anyway,  I was 
brought  up  by  normal  men,  and  I’m 
somewhat  limited  by  that — my  chil- 
dren won’t  be.  More  wine?” 

I nodded,  my  head  spinning.  I’d 


DONE  WITHOUT  EAGLES 


77 


felt  about  the  same  way  in  training 
school  when  I got  my  first  whiff  of 
butyl  mercaptan  in  the  chemistry 
class  and  was  told  a living  animal 
could  make  and  use  a similar  odor. 
It  was  a good  thing  Court  came  in 
then. 

“Rollins  knows  better  now,”  he 
said,  satisfaction  heavy  in  his  voice. 
“Sammy,  your  name’s  up  on  the 
caller;  captain  wants  you.”  And  as 
I slipped  out  of  the  cabin  toward  the 
dugout,  I caught  a less- welcome  sen- 
tence from  him:  “Think  I’ll  look 

over  the  engine  room  tomorrow, 
Stan.” 

All  I could  do  was  pray! 

Apparently  my  prayers  weren’t 
much  good,  though.  Near  the  end  of 
Captain  Lee’s  shift  the  next  day, 
while  I was  waiting  around  to  take 
over,  the  engine  phone  buzzed  and 
McAllister’s  voice  rattled  through  it. 
Lee  winced  and  held  it  out  so  we 
could  both  hear. 

McAllister  was  in  fine  fettle. 
“Captain,  there’s  an  old  fool  down 
here  making  trouble,  with  a freak  to 
help  him!  Three  of  my  best  men 
have  their  arms  broken  and  a cou- 
ple are  out.  ’Twas  a lovely  fight, 
while  it  lasted,  but  I’ve  work  to  be 
done  and  no  more  time  for  play. 
What’ll  I do  with  ’em?” 

“What  happened?  Where  are  they 
now?” 

“They’re  backed  in  a corner 
a- waiting  for  more  competition  right 
now,  and  the  old  man’s  using  highly 
uncomplimentary  language,  so 
they’ll  get  it.  He  came  down  to  fid- 
dle around,  you  might  say,  over  the 
shininess  of  my  turbines  .and  the 
dripping  of  my  oil,  and  I let  him. 
have  his  way  with  only  a word  or 
two  dropped  about  his  nose  being  a 
bit  long.  But  when  the  freak  found 
where  one  of  the  black  gang  had 
hidden  some  liquor  and  the  old  man 


broke  the  bottles,  the  nigger  jumped 
him,  and  the  freak  joined  the  play. 
Naturally,  the  others  didn’t  stand  by 
helpless,  and  I had  a bit  of  a time 
quieting  things  down.  . . . Shall  I 
shoot  them  or  use  a club?” 

Lee  swore  into  the  phone  and  then 
quieted  down  to  make  sense.  “Mc- 
Allister, put  the  fellow  with  the  liq- 
uor in  the  brig!  I’ll  settle  with  you 
later.  Keep  the  gang  of  cutthroats 
in  line  and  send  up  the  other  two — 
they’ll  come  if  you  tell  them  I or- 
dered it.  Did  any  outside  the  engine 
crew  hear  the  fight?” 

“No,  just  a little  private  party 
that  your  dainty  little  angels  won’t 
know  about.  I hated  to  break  it  up, 
but  I needed  a few  sound  men  to  run 
the  engines,  and  I thought  you  might 
have  some  slight  objections.  . . . 
O.  K.,  I’ve  told  ’em,  and  they’re  on 
the  way  up.” 

“McAllister  would!”  Lee  slapped 
the  phone  back  onto  its  cradle  and 
expounded  further  on  the  beauties 
of  a captain’s  life  and  the  virtue  of 
sundry  individuals.  “If  he  weren’t 
the  best  engineer  out,  I’d  sack  him 
— and  if  there’s  any  more  drinking 
or  fighting  aboard,  I will  anyway. 
He  does  enough  brawling  at  port — 
Come  in!” 

I don’t  know  what  I’d  expected; 
probably  pieces  of  man  and  mute, 
from  the  nature  of  McAllister’s  black 
gang.  Anyway,  I was  wrong.  Court 
was  highly  undirty  and  unscratched, 
which  could  only  mean  Stan  had 
done  the  actual  fighting.  The  mute’s 
shirt  would  have  made  lint,  and  his 
general  color  was  that  of  stale  oil; 
but,  except  for  a few  slight  scratches, 
he  was  untouched.  I had  a vision  of 
those  gorilla  arms  swinging  all  to- 
gether, and  began  to  see  why  Mc- 
Allister had  called  Lee  before  the 
fight  was  completely  finished. 

“Discipline,”  said  Court,  while  Lee 
was  still  swallowing  enough  ire  to 


78 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


clear  speaking  space  in  his  throat,  “is 
terrible  aboard,  sir.  Since  you  will 
probably  insist  on  retaining  what 
passes  for  your  engineer,  I have 
asked  Stan  to  accept  his  invitation 
and  meet  him  after  we  dock;  I hope 
you’ll  show  better  judgment  in 
choosing  the  new  engineer  you’ll 
need.” 

Lee  was  practically  gagging  by 
that  time.  “Captain  Perry,  you  for- 
get yourself!  Only  your  age  pre- 
vents me  from  confining  you  to  the 
brig,  sir!  Keep  out  of  my  mind, 
Stan!  This  goes  for  you,  too.  If  I 
suspect  you  of  trying  to  control  me, 
I’ll  brig  you  before  I break.  An- 
gels running  my  ship!  You  will  re- 
turn to  your  quarters  and  remain 
there  until  we  dock.  During  that 
time,  you  may  leave  to  dine,  only, 
and  you  will  refrain  from  all  com- 
ments to  other  passengers  or  any 
members  of  the  crew.  And  you,  Cap- 
tain Perry,  will  remove  the  uniform 
you  wear  by  courtesy,  and  dress  in 
civilians!” 

“That  exceeds  your  authority, 
Lee,”  Stan  pointed  out  softly.  Court 
was  radiating  a cold  white  anger  that 
needed  no  speech.  “It’s  true  that 
there  was  some  trouble  below,  but 
we  were  not  unauthorized  in  our 
search,  and  the  fight  was  not  of  my 
making;  I had  no  choice,  unless  I 
preferred  to  have  my  father  and  my- 
self mutilated.  There’s  no  need  to 
strip,  dad!” 

“Except  that  he’s  been  scaring  the 
angels  with  wild  tales  while  his 
clothes  give  his  words  weight!  He’s 
ruining  my  crew  and  destroying  mo- 
rale— generally  making  a nuisance  or 
a laughingstock  of  himself.  I won’t 
have  the  uniform  disgraced.  To 
quarters!” 

There  was  a click  of  heels  from 
Court  and  the  sound  of  feet  slapping- 
down  the  hall  before  his  door  clicked. 


Stan  stood  a moment  longer,  spread- 
ing his  hands  at  odd  angles,  then  fol- 
lowed. With  a glance  at  the  clock, 
Lee  clapped  his  hands  down  on  the 
panel  and  jerked  from  the  throne. 

“Seven  hours  from  Mars.  Take 
over!  Don’t  call  me  unless  there’s 
an  emergency.” 

That  left  me  alone  at  the  controls, 
and  the  peace  should  have  been  wel- 
come, but  wasn’t.  I could  still  hear 
echoes  bouncing  from  the  walls,  and 
the  face  of  Court  Perry  kept  getting- 
in  front  of  the  controls.  I never  took 
sides  in  a ruction  in  a family  or  ship, 
but  I’d  have  given  half  an  eye  to  see 
the  answer  to  this  one.  Grown  men, 
I figured,  are  worse  than  kids,  and 
you  can’t  spank  them  as  easily.  And 
when  they’re  hurt,  I reckon  the  sting 
lasts  longer. 

If  I hadn’t  been  darned  fool 
enough  to  worry  about  something 
that  wasn’t  my  business,  I might 
have  taken  more  notice  of  the  slight 
quiver  that  touched  the  ship  a cou- 
ple of  hours  later,  but  I put  it  down 
to  temporary  lag  in  one  tube,  cor- 
rected it  automatically,  and  went  on 
roiling  around  mentally.  In  the  back 
of  my  mind,  I heard  the  door  open 
softly  and  close,  and  was  glad  Lee 
had  returned  instead  of  getting 
drunk  as  I feared,  but  didn’t  bother 
to  look  around.  A hand  slid  across 
my  back  and  gripped  my  shoulder 
before  I swung  to  see  Court  Perry. 

He’d  put  off  his  uniform  and  most 
of  himself  with  it,  and  now  only  a 
small,  beaten  old  man  stood  there 
looking  at  me  uncertainly.  There’s 
a certain  kind  of  hell  in  the  back  of 
the  best  minds,  and  Court  had  found 
it.  The  fact  that  there  was  no  pain 
or  bitterness  on  his  face  only  made 
it  worse,  somehow.  I slid  out  of  the 
copilot  stool. 

“Sit  down,  sir.  Lee’s  turned  au- 
thority over  to  me  and  won’t  be  back 
for  hours.”  His  look  toward  the 


DONE  WITHOUT  EAGLES 


79 


chair  was  hesitant,  and  I motioned 
toward  it  again.  “I’m  commanding 
now,  and  if  I choose  to  request  your 
presence  here  as  an  adviser,  nobody 
can  do  anything  about  it.” 

“Don’t  counter  your  captain  too 
much,  Sammy.”  But  he  took  the 
stool,  sinking  down  into  it  like  a 
half-pricked  balloon.  “Sometime  you 
may  be  -running  your  own  tick.  I 
felt  the  ship  lurch  back  there.  Know 
what  it  was?” 

“Tube  lag.  I’ve  corrected.” 

“I  thought  so — you’d  naturally 
make  that  mistake.  It  wasn’t  tube 
lag.  That  lurch  came  from  Hull 
Section  C,  or  everything  I learned 
about  the  feeling'  of  a ship  is  wrong 
— afirl  I don’t  think  so.  That  means 
a peanut  from  the  Little  Swarm 
clipped  up  too  close  before  the  re- 
pellers  functioned,  and  it  was  soaked 
up  too  quickly  for  recoil  compensa- 
tion. That’s  dangerous  business,  and 
I couldn’t  stay  berthed  with  it  go- 
ing on.” 

“Indicator’s  registering.”  I tapped 
out  more  current  to  the  hull  repeller 
and  watched  the  pointer.  It  flut- 
tered a second,  and  wabbled  slowly 
over — but  kept  on  going  instead  of 
stopping  at  the  mark.  “Hm-m-m.” 
“Exactly.”  . 

Right  then  I began  to  see  meteors 
swarming  up  as  thick  as  peas  in  a 
can.  I grabbed  the  phone,  yelled 


down  for  the  repair  crew  to  jury-rig 
whatever  was  wrong.  Court  tapped 
me. 

“Make  an  overroll.  They  strike 
from  the  starboard  side,  and  if  we 
turn  the  weak  section  to  port,  it’ll 
help.”  As  he  saw  me  grab  for  the 
calculator  to  figure  my  thrusts,  he 
brushed  my  hands  aside  and  laid  his 
on  the  controls,  feeling  over  the 
raised  indicators  with  fingers  that 
seemed  jointless,  then  pulled  on  the 
firing  pins.  Spirit  ran  back  over  him. 

The  Kickapoo’s  thwart  tubes  mut- 
tered obediently,  and  I could  feel  the 
faint  press  of  tfverroll  acceleration. 
While  she  was  just  starting,  those 
long  flickering  fingers  went  back  to 
the  steering  panel  and  made  another 
lightning  reset,  twisted  the  delayed- 
fire  dials,  and  punched  the  pins 
again  to  check  when  half-over  was 
reached.  I’d  heard  men  claim  ships 
could  be  handled  by  conditioned  re- 
flexes, but  I’d  never  seen  it  tried  be- 
fore. 

Court  leaned  back,  his  hands  still 
playing  over  the  indicators.  “Not 
much  chance  of  two  meteors  hitting 
the  same  spot  for  hours,  anyway,  but 
there’s  no  sense  in — ” 

SSSping-awgh-ooOOM!  Some- 
thing burst  in  front  of  us,  white-hot 
and  flaming  hotter  as  it  struck 
through  the  etherphone  and  threw 


so 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


hot  metal  splattering  over  the  dug- 
out.  One  of  us  grabbed  the  other — 
which  it  was  isn’t  clear — and  we 
lurched  toward  the  door,  just  as  the 
last  sounds  subsided.  There  was  a 
series  of  rolling  slams,  and  the  auto- 
matic air  gates  whammed  shut,  one, 
two,  three,  cutting  the  dugout  in  two 
just  behind  the  panel.  The  local 
danger  lights  went  off  and  we 
stopped  our  scramble  for  the  door. 

Then  the  thwart  tubes  burbled 
again,  stopping  the  roll  of  the  ship 
after  the  damage  was  done.  From 
below  came  faint  sounds  of  excite- 
ment that  meant  the  angels  were 
milling  around  with  their  fear  on 
their  arms,  like  a pack  of  sheep. 
Court  snapped  up  and  dived  for  the 
angel  communicator  while  I began 
bellowing  down  for  the  checking 
gang  to  patch  the  holes  in  the  outer 
and  inner  sheaths. 

Ilis  voice  was  brisk  and  confident. 
“The  small  meteor  you  just  felt 
drove  into  the  control  room  from 
which  I’m  speaking,”  he  announced. 
“No  serious  damage  was  done,  and 
there  is  absolutely  no  danger.  Pas- 
sengers are  requested  to  continue  as 
before.  The  slight  inconvenience 
caused  will  in  no  way  affect  them, 
nor  the  arrival  time  at  our  destina- 
tion. I assure  you,  there  is'no  cause 
for  worry.” 

As  they  began  quieting  down  un- 
der his  words  and  I turned  to  inspect 
the  panel,  Lee  came  bursting  in  and 
thrust  himself  in  front  of  me.  “What 
happened?” 

I told  him  quickly,  and  he  grunted. 
“Etherphone  gone,  of  course.  All  in- 
struments are  dead!  It  must  have 
hit  the  relay  chamber  and  burned 
out  the  connections.  We’re  flying 
completely  blind,  without  spy  instru- 
ments! No  way  of  contacting  Earth, 
where  the  repair  ships  are;  none  on 
Mars  at  present.  Even  if  we  could 
get  a message  out,  our  momentum 


woidd  carry  us  to  Jupiter  by  the 
time  they  could  reach  us.” 

“The  controls  are  all  right, 
though.”  It  was  Court’s  voice, 
breaking  in  on  the  gloom.  “The 
overroll  counterset  worked!  They’re 
not  connected  with  the  spy  instru- 
ments, anyway.” 

“What  good  are  controls  without 
indicators?  You!  I thought  I gave 
orders  you  were  to  stay  berthed!  Is 
this  accident  more  of  your  work, 
Captain  Perry?” 

“Easy,  Lee.”  I caught  him  just 
as  Stan  slid  through  the  doorway, 
arms  and  all,  and  completely  filled 
what  was  left  of  the  dugout.  “Court 
was  helping  me,  at  my  request,  and 
he  almost  succeeded  in  preventing 
this.  He  might  still  help  if  you’ll 
calm  down  and  use  your  head.  What 
next?” 

“What  can  be  next?  Get  Stan  to 
signal  Mars  with  the  etherphone  he 
used  before  and  have  them  contact 
Earth,  I guess — then  wait.  There’s 
no  chance  of  fixing  the  fused  mess 
the  meteor  would  make  of  the  re- 
lays.” 

Court  shook  his  head.  “We  can’t 
wait.  I promised  the  passengers 
they’d  reach  Mars  on  fime,  and  I 
mean  to  see  they  do.  I’ll  fly  it  if 
you  can’t.” 

“Without  instruments?.  Captain 
Perry,  return  to  your  quarters  and 
keep  this  to  yourself.” 

“Without  instruments!”  Court’s 
voice  was  flat  and  positive. 

“For  the  last  time,  will  you  get 
out?” 

“No.  I’m  flying  the  Kickapoo  to 
Mars  Junction!” 

That  was  a little  strong,  even  for 
me.  “You  can’t  do  it,  sir.  That 
would  be  mutiny.”  I grabbed  for 
one  arm  as  Lee  caught  the  other, 
but  the  old  man  braced  himself  and 
refused  to  move. 


DONE  WITHOUT  EAGLES 


81 


“It  is  mutiny,”  he  said.  Then,  as 
Lee  let  go  and  grabbed  for  the  phone 
to  summon  help:  “Stan!” 

Stan  stood  there  for  a second,  then 
moved  toward  us,  a slow  frown 
creeping  up  on  his  face.  A flurry  of 
arms  came  at  us — they  must  have 
been  arms,  at  least — and  I felt  my- 
self leave  the  floor,  twist  and  turn  in 
the  air,  and  hit  something.  Black- 
out! 

Lee’s  voice,  raging  furiously  and 
almost  incoherently  was  the  first 
thing  I knew  later,  except  for  the 
ringing  that  went  on  in  my  head. 
“ — behind  the  bars  till  the  devil 
catches  pneumonia!  I’ll — ” 

Stan  turned  from  some  problem  he 
was  working  on,  and  little  furrows 
of  concentration  set  on  his  brow. 
“Shut  up,  Lee!  You’ll  not  say  an- 
other word  until  we  reach  Mars. 
Understand?” 

Lee’s  open  mouth  worked  furi- 
ously, but  nothing  came  out  of  it. 
Finally,  he  slumped  back  and  gave 
up.  The  mute  turned  to  me. 
“Sorry,  Sammy,  but  I had  to  do  it. 
Here,  I’ll  fix  that  headache  for  you.” 
Again  there  was  a second  of  concen- 
tration, and  the  ringing  was  sud- 
denly gone,  though  the  lump  on  the 
back  of  my  head  was  still  there. 

“Where  are  we  now?” 

“Half  an  hour  from  Mars;  you’ve 
been  out  quite  a while,”  Court  an- 
swered me.  “Stan  plotted  a course 
from  the  co-ordinates  I remembered 
were  on  the  panel  before  the  crash, 
and  we’re  using  dead  reckoning.  Of 
course,  there  may  be  a slight  error 
of  a few  hundred  miles,  but  that  isn’t 
much.” 

Slight  error!  Technically,  it  was; 
but  that  wouldn’t  help  if  we  crashed 
square  into  the  planet,  or  missed 
completely.  Lee  writhed  in  the  cor- 
ner and  managed  a hissing  sound. 
Well,  there  was  nothing  I could  do 


now.  Court  had  the  ship  and  there 
was  no  chance  of  outside  help.  Ail 
I could  do  was  ride  along  and  pray 
— fervently  if  not  hopefully. 

“Get  a reading  yet?”  Court  asked. 
“And  better  signal  Mars  to  clear  the 
field — I may  wabble  a little.” 

Stan  picked  up  a little  box  with  a 
few  loops  of  wire  sticking  from  it 
and  began  twisting  a dial;  it  wasn’t 
big  enough  for  an  etherphone,  as  I 
knew  one,  but  a faint  whisper  from 
the  headset  reached  me,  after  a brief 
pause. 

“They  say  all  clear  down  there, 
dad;  I told  them  we  -were  having  a 
little  trouble.  From  the  directional 
angle  I get  with  the  loop  here,  we’re 
about  two  seconds  of  an  arc  too  high. 
Better  correct.” 

“Already  done.  Now  if  I can  hit 
into  the  atmosphere  right,  and  get 
the  feel  of  the  air  currents  so  I can 
recognize  the  territory  I’m  in,  we’U 
be  all  set.”  He  hunched  himself 
over  the  panel  and  sat  waiting  for 
a few  aeons  longer.  Finally:  “Ah, 

there’s  the  first  layer  of  thin  air — 
we’re  still  a little  too  fast!  There, 
that  should  fix  it.  We’re  getting 
down  where  the  air  currents  have 
character  now.” 

“Junction  on  a line  from  us,  al- 
most,” Stan  reported.  “Correct  to 
port  one  degree  five  and  a half  sec- 
onds . . . two  minutes  . . . eight 
seconds.  Good!” 

“Updraft — that  puts  us  over— 
Hm-m-m.” 

Magic  may  have  its  place,  but  I 
wasn’t  used  to  it  aboard  the  Kicka- 
poo.  “Good  Lord,  Stan,”  I begged, 
“do  something  about  it!  No  man 
can  fly  a rocket  by  air  currents  and 
the  feel  of  her!  I can’t  even  tell  an 
updraft  from  a hurricane  in  this 
heavy  shell.” 

“He  can.”  The  calm  in  his  voice 
was  infuriating.  “Dad’s  memorized 
every  square  inch  and  reaction  of 


82 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


the  whole  Kiekapoo  until  he  knows 
every  quiver  of  her  hull  and  pull  of 
her  controls.  Flew  her  for  a year 
without  using  the  vision  plate.  Dad’s 
been  blind  six  years,  Sammy!” 

“But — ” That  was  too  much  for 
even  Stan’s  control,  and  Lee 
squeezed  the  one  word  out  hoarsely. 

“This  time,  I’ve  been  his  eyes — 
telepathy,  you  know.  Dad  didn’t 
want  people  to  guess.  When  his 
eyesight  began  failing,  he  put  those 
raised  indicators  in  at  his  own  ex- 
pense and  went  ahead.  And  for  your 
mental  comfort,  he  made  his  last  two 
landings  with  eyesight  completely 
gone  and  without  a hitch.  If  the 
officers’  board  hadn’t  caught  on,  he’d 
still  be  rvrfming  a regular  tick,  and 
Lee  would  be  copiloting  without 
guessing  the  truth.” 

Maybe  so,  but  the  mental  comfort 
he’d  mentioned  wasn’t  there.  Those 
raised  indicators  weren’t  helping  this 
trip,  and  Court  hadn’t  touched  a 
control  for  five  years.  He’d  been 
hunched  over  the  controls  while  Stan 
was  speaking,  but  now  he  broke  in 
again. 

“There’s  Junction,  by  the  feel  of 
it.  Test  her,  Stan;  that  should  be 
the  field!” 

“I  think  it  was!” 

“Good!  We’re  high,  from  the 
sound  of  the  back-blast.”  The 
Kiekapoo  veered  around  in  a huge 
circle.  Court  fighting  the  controls  to 
hold  her  on  a level  without  indica- 
tors. Stan  apparently  was  capable 
of  nothing  but  confidence,  which 
wasn’t  shared  entirely  by  his  father. 
Sweat  began  popping  out  on  the  old 
man’s  face.  “Can’t  make  it  this  time, 
either!” 

“Steady,  dad!” 

“I’m  steady  enough.”  Again  the 
ship  made  a tight  circle,  her  vanes 
shrieking  against  the  air;  her  speed 
was  low  now,  and  she  wabbled  un- 


certainly. Court’s  hands  bleached 
white,  and  his  face  blanched  sud- 
denly. One  fist  jerked  away  spas- 
modically, slapped  back,  and  the 
grim  fight  with  the  controls  went  on. 
I was  cooking  in  my  own  sw'eat.  ’ 

Then  something  slithered  under 
us,  the  rockets  died,  and  silence 
reigned!  From  outside  came  a rat- 
tle, and  we  went  into  motion  again 
in  a way  that  meant  the  field  tractors 
were  dragging  us  in.  Safe!  Stan 
was  untying  Lee  and  myself,  and 
then  Lee  was  muttering  something  I 
didn’t  try  to  understand  and  moving 
toward  Court. 

The  old  captain  watched  his  ap- 
proach with  a tired  smile,  and  came 
slowly  to  his  feet.  “It’s  your  throne 
again,  Lee.  It’s — ” 

Hell  splashed  over  his  face^at  that 
moment!  Stan  barely  managed  to 
catch  him  as  the  legs  buckled  and 
failed  him.  But  the  salute  he  had 
started  continued,  and  the  voice 
went  on  faintly:  “A  very  nice  land- 
ing you  made,  Lee — you  made,  un- 
derstand? . . . My  cap!  . . . 
Where’s  my  cap?” 

Lee  caught  himself  and  jerked  his 
own  cap  up  out  of  the  corner  where 
it  had  lain,  making  gulping  motions 
in  his  throat.  “Here,  cap,”  he  said, 
putting  it  on  the  old  man’s  head. 
“Here’s  your  cap.” 

Some  of  the  agony  left  Court’s 
mouth  as  his  fingers  felt  it  and 
groped  up  the  visor.  “Eagles!”  The 
smile  that  suffused  his  face  might 
almost  have  been  a prayer.  “My 
eagles!” 

Then  Stan  was  laying  the  body 
down  and  clutching  tight  at  Lee’s 
shaking  shoulders.  “Not  your 
fault,”  he  was  saying  gently.  “Not 
your  fault,  Lee.  His  heart — ” 

I turned  and  stumbled  out  of  the 
dugout  to  oversee  the  passengers  who 
were  landing  after  another  unevent- 
ful trip  to  Mars. 


83 

THE  self  net  Of  lilHITHERIOG 

By  L Sprague  de  Camp 

Being  a discussion  of  whither  goefh  civilization 
—or  dees  it?  The  whltherers  seem  to  be  either 
happy,  though  pessimistic  or  happily  pessimistic. 

Illustrated  by  Schneeman 
Part  II. 


In  the  first  part  of  our  survey  of 
experts  on  the  “Cause  and  Cure  of 
Civilization,”  we  discussed  those  who 
take  States,  economic  classes,  and 
races  as  their  units,  and  started  in  on 
those  who  take  societies.  We  pol- 
ished off  Professor  Sorokin,  whom  I 
described  as  an  optimistic  mystic. 
It  would  have  been  more  accurate  to 
describe  him  as  pessimistic  in  the 
short  run  and  optimistic  in  the  long, 
since  he  holds  that  we  are  in  the 
painful  state  of  living  in  a disinte- 
grating Sensate  culture,  which  state 
will  become  painfuller  and  painfuller 
until  the  “dawn  of  a great  new  Idea- 
tional culture.” 

Vilfredo  Pareto  (1848-1923)  is  an- 
other whitherer  who  studies  the  evo- 
lution of  societies.  He  was  an  Ital- 
ian engineer  turned  sociologist,  who 
wrote  his  magnus  opus  during  the 
War  of  1914  while  living  in  Switzer- 
land with  twenty-odd  cats  and  thou- 
sands of  newspaper  clippings.  He 
could  be  described  as  a — more  or 
less — optimistic  materialist  in  the 
same  sense  that  Sorokin — who  does 
not  approve  of  Pareto — is  called  an 
optimistic  mystic.  As  Sorokin  ad- 
mires St.  Thomas,  Pareto  admires 
Niccolo  Machiavelli  (1469-1527) , 
who,  wishing  to  see  Italy  united  un- 
der strong  leadership,  wrote  a fa- 
mous book  of  advice  to  the  princes 

AST— 6 


of  his  time  on  how  to  win  power 
and  fool  people. 

Pareto’s  “Treatise  on  General  So- 
ciology” would  better  have  been 
called  something  like  “The  Natural 
History  of  Nonlogical  Thought.” 
According  to  him,  actions  in  the 
sphere  of  human  relations  are  almost 
all  motivated  by  nonlogical  senti- 
ments which  he  calls  “residues.”  The 
reasons  that  people  give  to  justify 
these  actions  are  mere  rationaliza- 
tions— “derivations.”  The  “resi- 
dues” fall  into  six  classes,  of  which 
the  most  important  for  his  purpose 
are  Class  I,  “Instinct  for  Combina- 
tions,” and  Class  II,  “Persistence  of 
Aggregates.”  He  might  have  called 
them  simply  “experimentalism”  and 
“traditionalism.” 

The  masses  are  usually  strong  in 
Class  II — the  conservative,  tradi- 
tionalist residues.  Their  leaders  vary 
between  Class  I and  Class  II.  A 
government  that  relies  mainly  on 
force  to  maintain  itself  is  rich  in 
Class  TI;  one  that  relies  on  cunning, 
in  Class  I.  A government  too  rich 
in  Class  I — experimentalism — such 
as  a government  of  “speculators” — 
Pareto’s  epithet  for  the  business 
class,  which  he  dislikes— is  shaky. 
If  it  is  too  rich  in  Class  II — tradi- 
tionalism— it  is  hidebound.  A per- 
manent governing  class  tends  to  be- 


84 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


come  richer  and  richer  in  Class  II, 
until  it  invites  revolution  by  ex- 
cluding Class  I-rich  members  of  the 
governed,  forcing  them  to  take  the 
leadership  of  the  governed  inde- 
pendently of  the  official  government. 
To  maintain  itself  it  must  therefore 
permit  class  circulation  of  the  elite — 
the  natural-born  leaders. 

In  Athens,  Class  I was  strong  in 
both  leaders  and  followers;  in  Sparta, 
both  were  strong  in  Class  II.  Rome 
had  Class  I — experimentalist — lead- 
ers and  Class  II — traditionalist — fol- 
lowers, and  was  more  successful  than 
either. 

Our  present  societies  are  moving 
along  the  curve  taken  by  the  Late 
Roman  and  Byzantine  Empires,  in 
which  an  overwhelming  preponder- 
ance of  traditionalist  residues  dried 
up  class  circulation  and  weakened 
the  elite,  ending  in  the  omnipotence 
of  a senile  bureaucracy.  The  present 
vogue  for  “social  planning”  is  an  in- 
dication of  this.  But,  if  present  tend- 
encies are  toward  an  increase  in  tra- 
ditionalist residues,  the  proportions 
between  them  have  oscillated  con- 
tinuously in  the  past,  and  there  will 
probably  be  an  eventual  reaction. 
And  there  is  reason  to  think  that, 
on  the  whole,  Class  I residues  tend 
to  increase  slowly  over  a long  time, 
especially  in  the  arts  and  sciences; 
they  are  stronger  in  many  fields  than 
they  were  in  the  classical  w'orld.  So 
Pareto  is  also  a short-term  pessimist 
and  a long-term  optimist,  though  a 
good  deal  of  a cynic  at  all  times. 

For  Pareto’s  claims  to  impartial- 
ity, one  can  allow  that,  instead  of 
urging  people  to  “do  something”  as 
do  so  many  whitherers,  he  seems  to 
be  content  with  getting  ironic  amuse- 
ment out  of  his  gloomy  short-term 
forecasts. 

Oswald  Spengler  (1880-1939) 
holds  a cyclic  view  of  history.  He 


is  a cyclist  with  a vengeance.  In  his 
“Decline  of  the  West”  he  lists  the 
following  societies:  Egyptian,  Baby- 
lonian, Minoan,  Chinese,  Indian, 
Classical,  Arabian,  Western,  Mexi- 
can, Peruvian,  and  Russian.  He 
shows  by  comparative  tables  how 
they  have  passed  through  the  same 
stages,  and  locates  accurately  the 
point  in  its  development  reached  by 
our  own  Western  society. 

The  stages  are: 

Spring:  Rural  feudalism.  In  art, 
great  creations  from  the  newly  awak- 
ened dream- soul.  Ornament  and 
architecture  as  elementary  expres- 
sions of  the  young  world-feeling — 
whatever  all  those  impressive  words 
may  mean. 

Summer:  Formation  of  national 

States.  Earliest  urban  and  rural 
critical  stirrings  in  art. 

Autumn:  Break-up  of  the  State- 

form — revolution  and  Napoleonism. 
Victory  of  the  city  over  the  country, 
of  the  “people”  over  the  privileged, 
of  the  intelligentsia  over  tradition, 
of  money  over  policy.  Zenith  of  in- 
tellectual creativeness. 

Winter:  Csesarism — a cynical  and 
ruthless  power-seeking  political 
policy.  Victory  of  force-politics 
over  money.  Increasing  primitive- 
ness of  political  forms.  Inward  de- 
cline of  the  nations  into  a formless 
population,  and  constitution  thereof 
into  an  “Imperium”  of  increasing 
crudity  of  despotism.  Luxury,  sport, 
nerve-excitement.  Rapidly  changing 
fashions  in  art.  Extinction  of  spir- 
itual creative  force.  Primitive  hu- 
man conditions  slowly  thrust  up  into 
a highly  civilized  mode  of  living — 

On  Spengler’s  calendar,  we  West- 
erners ought  to  be  near  Labor  Day. 
We  are  due  for  our  dose  of  a despotic, 
society-wide  “Imperium”  about 
'2000  A.  D.  About  all  that  is  left  for 
a creative-minded  Westerner  to  go 
into  are  engineering  and  colored- 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  WHITHEBING 


85 


shirt  politics.  People  will  soon  lose 
interest  in  science,  and  desire  only 
a faith  to  cling  to.  “For  us,  too — 
the  age  of  theory  is  drawing  to  a 
dose.”  “Once  the  Imperial  Age  has 
arrived,  there  are  no  more  political 
problems.  People  manage  with  the 
situation  as  it  is  and  the  powers  that 
be.”  “The  realm  of  books  and  prob- 
lems petrifies  or  vanishes  from 
memory.” 

There  is  much  more,  about  the 
Apollinean  Soul  of  Classical  society, 
symbolized  by  the  nude  male  statue; 
the  Magian  Soul  of  Arabian  Society, 
symbolized  by  the  dome;  our  own 
Faustian  Soul,  striving  after  and 
symbolized  by  infinite  space,  et  cet- 
era  But  type  is  not  made  of  rubber. 

Spengler  mustered  a vast  amount 
of  evidence  for  his  cyclical  theory. 
He  was  an  eloquent  and  highly  quot- 
able writer,  but  a strong  streak  of 
irrationalism  runs  through  his  work. 
It  can  be  argued  that  all  his  talk 
about  our  Faustian  souls  is  ency- 
clopedic nonsense.  And  his  reason- 
ing is  admittedly  by  analogy — un- 
safe from  a scientific  standpoint.  He 
can  be  classed  as  a pessimistic  mys- 
tic, for  while  his  theory  calls  for  the 
eventual  appearance  of  a new  society 
to  take  the  place  of  ours,  he  is  fully 
occupied  with  the  drawn-out  and 
painful  future  of  our  own.  His  pre- 
diction of  the  victory  of  what  Bell 
calls  “upright  ignorance  and  stal- 
wart irrationality”  would  not  give  a 
materialist  much  cause  for  optimism; 
even  the  mystical  Spengler  himself 
seems  to  get  little  pleasure  out  of  it. 

Another  pessimistic  mystic  is  Ar- 
nold J.  Toynbee  of  the  Royal  Insti- 
tute of  International  Affairs,  author 
of  “A  Study  in  History.”  He  is  the 
most  erudite,  and  perhaps  one  of 
the  most  humane  and  reasonable, 
of  the  “Cause  and  Cure”  experts  we 
have  met  yet. 


Some  view  man’s  machine  slaves  with 
alarm,  some  view  man’s  slavery  to 
the  machine.  And  some  just  view  it — 


He  defines  civilizations  as  intelli- 
gible fields  of  historical  study,  and 
lists  the  following  societies:  Egyp- 

tian, Sumeric,  Babylonic,  Hittite, 
Minoan,  Sinic  (early  Chinese) , Far 
Eastern  (late  Chinese  plus  Korean 
and  Japanese) , Indie  (early  Indian) , 
Hindu  (late  Indian) , Hellenic,  Or- 
thodox Christian  (Byzantium  plus  an 
offshoot  in  Russia) , Syriac,  Arabic, 
Iranic,  Western,  Mayan,  Yucatec, 
Mexic,  Andean.  Spengler’s  Baby- 
lonian is  his  Sumeric  plus  Babylonic 
plus  Hittite.  Spengler’s  Classical  is 
his  Hellenic  plus  Byzantium.  Spen- 
gler’s Arabian  is  his  Syriac  plus  Ara- 
bic plus  Iranic,  the  last  two  of  which 
have  merged  into  a single  Islamic 
society.  And  Spengler’s  Mexican  is 
obviously  his  Mayan  plus  Yucatec 
plus  Mexic. 

The  societies  still  living  are  the 
Far  Eastern,  Hindu,  Islamic,  and 
Orthodox  Christian,  plus  the  West- 
ern, which  is  today  rapidly  absorbing 
all  the  others.  There  is  also  a fossil 
of  the  Syriac,  comprising  the  Mono- 
phyte  Christians  of  the  Near  East 
and  the  Orthodox  Jews,  and  a fossil 


80 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


of  the  Indie  comprising  the  Bud- 
dhists of  Mongolia,  Tibet,  and  Siam. 

The  typical  history  of  a civiliza- 
tion is  as  follows:  It' arises  when  a 

group  of  people  meet  a challenge 
severe  enough  to  stimulate  them 
without  being  so  severe  as  to  crush 
them.  Example:  The  challenge  of 
migration  to  Iceland  stimulated  the 
Scandinavians  to  develop  their 
promising  Icelandic  culture;  when 
some  went  on  to  Greenland  the  chal- 
lenge was  too  severe,  and  the  Green- 
land colony  failed. 

During  growth,  the  civilization  ra- 
diates its  influence  among  neighbor- 
ing peoples,  who  are  drawn  into  its 
orbit  by  its  attractiveness  and  ad- 
vantages  .Creative  minorities  set 

the  pace  for  the  rest. 

Growth  can  continue  as  long  as 
the  civilization,  or  its  creative  mi- 
nority, continues  to  meet  successive 
challenges.  But  institutions  and 
techniques  that  worked  very  well 
once  may  fail  when  applied  to  new 
conditions — though  their  possessors 
are  likely  to  continue  idolizing  them 
nevertheless.  When  a challenge  is 
not  met,  trouble  begins.  It  is  likely 
to  take  the  form  of  a “Time  of  Trou- 
bles," wherein  the  States  compris- 
ing the  civilization  fight  until  one 
knocks  out  and  conquers  all  the  oth- 
ers. (Example:  the  wars  of  Hellenic 
society,  481-31  B.  C.)  Often  it  is  a 
unit  on  the  periphery,  the  “back- 
woodsmen,” who  are  enabled  to  beat 
the  others  by  the  practice  they  have 
had  in  fighting  the  surrounding  bar- 
barians. (Timur  was  an  example  of 
this  in  Iranic  society.) 

The  winning  contestant  establishes 
a Universal  State.  (Examples:  the 
Roman  Empire,  the  Tokugawa  Sho- 
gunate  in  Japan.)  People  by  then 
have  become  so  sick  of  war  that  they 
welcome,  or  at  least  put  up  with,  a 
Universal  State,  even  one  of  alien 
origin.  The  Syriac  civilization  had 


a succession  of  universal  States  es- 
tablished by  the  Persians,  the  Mace- 
donians, the  Romans,  and  the 
Arabs,  before  its  final  dissolution 
during  the  Turkish  and  Mongol  in- 
vasions of  1000-1800  A.  D.  The  Uni- 
versal State  of  Orthodox  Christian 
society  was  the  empire  of  the  Os- 
manli  (Ottoman)  Turks.  The 
Hindu  society  has  had  two  such:  of 
the  Turks— the  Mogul  Empire — and 
of  the  British. 

The  Universal  State  tends  to  be- 
come a despotism  tempered  by  as- 
sassination, with  occasional  relapses 
into  anarchy.  The  Creative  Mi- 
nority becomes  a , Dominant  Mi- 
nority which  merely  holds  down  the 
lid.  The  rest  of  the  population  be- 
comes an  Internal  Proletariat,  with 
no  stake  in  their  civilization  and  no 
love  for  their  masters.  The  sur- 
rounding barbarians  become  an  Ex- 
ternal Proletariat,  exploited  by  the 
Dominant  Minority,  and  eventually 
rising  against  them  in  a Volkerwan- 
derung  (tribal  migration) . The  Uni- 
versal State  may  expand  while  de- 
clining, conscripting  surrounding 
people  into  its  Internal  Proletariat 
by  force  majeure. 

It  still  radiates  cultural  influence, 
but  principally  in  the  military  field, 
so  that  the  barbarians  improve  their 
fighting  technique  until  they  can 
meet  the  Imperial  troops  on  an  even 
footing.  Often  the  Universal  State 
hires  them  as  mercenaries,  giving 
them  free  training  in  advanced  war- 
fare and  opportunity  to  bore  from 
within. 

Thus  w’e  have  Stilicho  and  Aetius 
in  the  West  Roman  Empire,  bar- 
barian soldiers  turned  politician  who 
work  themselves  up  to  high  office. 
After  them  come  Ricimer  and  Odo- 
vakar,  who  make  and  unmake  pup- 
pet emperors.  Then  comes  Theod- 
erik,  with  the  ambiguous  positions 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  WHITHERING 


87 


of  Imperial  general  and  leader  of  a 
barbarian  war  band,  who  seizes  a 
piece  of  the  Universal  State,  not  to 
destroy  it,  but  to  exploit  and  defend 
it.  Finally  Alboin  the  Lombard  sets 
up  a real  barbarian  successor  State 
on  the  ruins. 

Symptoms  of  the  decline  of  a civ- 
ilization are  archaism  (revival  of  an- 
tique customs  and  institutions) ; hos- 
tility between  the  Dominant  Mi- 
nority and  the  Internal  Proletariat; 
a sense  of  sin  that  finds  expression 
in  ascetic  religion.  The  last  may 
give  rise  to  a Universal  Church 
spreading  first  through  the  Internal 
Proletariat  and  thence  into  the 
Dominant  Minority  (Christianity  in 
Hellenic  society;  Islam  in  Syriac; 
Hinduism  in  Indie) . The  Universal 
Church  may  serve  as  a chrysalis  for 
the  new  civilization  which  will  arise 
on  the  ruins  of  the  old. 

When  the  Universal  State  has  been 
dismembered,  the  barbarian  war 
bands  set  up  successor  States — usu- 
ally short-lived — on  its  ruins.  There 
follows  an  “interregnum,”  a period 
of  bloody  disorder  that  will  be  known 
long  after  as  a “heroic  age.”  Its 
main  product  is  epic  poetry  of  the 
Homeric  type.  (Examples:  the 

Sanskrit  and  Irish  epics.)  This  po- 
etry has  practically  nothing  to  do 
with  history.  For  instance,  the  po- 
etic cycle  of  Dietrich  von  Bern 
shows  practically  no  resemblance  to 
the  life  of  the  man  on  whom  it  is 
based,  Theoderik  the  Great.  It  does 
not  mention  the  Roman  Empire, 
which  is  rather  like  a life  of  George 
Washington  that  did  not  mention 
the  British. 

This  entire  cycle  may  not  be  fol- 
lowed. A civilization  may  be  ab- 
sorbed into  a stronger  one,  as  the 
Arabic  has  been  absorbed  into  the 
Iranic.  Or  it  may  be  cut  short  by 
military  destruction,  as  were  the  An- 
dean and  Minoan.  The  decline  of  a 


Universal  State  may  be  drawn  out 
by  a succession  of  rallies.  Or  it  may 
reach  a static  phase  which  it  main- 
tains for  many  centuries  with  little 
visible  change,  as  did  the  Egyptian. 

Toynbee  suggests  that  we  may 
now  be  in  the  “Time  of  Troubles” 
of  Western  civilization,  which  began 
in  the  Wars  of  Religion,  died  down, 
and  has  broken  out  again  in  the 
Wars  of  Nationalism.  With  true 
scientific  caution  he  refrains  from 
pushing  his  analogies  too  far.  The 
one  thing  that  is  certain  is  that  we 
have  not  yet  got  our  Universal  State, 
though  Napoleon’s  Empire  might  be 
considered  a preliminary  attempt,  as 
Alexander’s  was  in  Hellenic  society. 

Anyway,  Toynbee  does  not  like 
the  present  state  of  Western  society, 
which,,  he  says,  is  in  a “wintry  age.” 
This  dislike  seems  due  almost  as 
much  to  its  materialistic,  irreligious 
tendencies  as  to  its  warlike  ones. 
He  suggests  the  possibility  of  a Uni- 
versal State  consisting  of  a scientific 
despotism  which,  once  established, 
would  continue  indefinitely,  as  there 
would  be  no  more  warlike  barbarians 
left  to  overthrow  it. 

The  answer  to  that  is  given  by 
the  small  school  of  pessimistic  ma- 
terialists. Unfortunately  these  peo- 
ple are  few  in  number,  and  are  not 
as  a rule  full-time  whitherers.  One 
of  them  is  the  English  archeologist 
and  detective-story  writer  Stanley 
Casson — “Progress  and  Catastro- 
phe”— who  points  out  ominous  par- 
allels between  our  situation  and  that 
of  people  before  each  of  the  two  great- 
previous  European -interregna,  1100- 
600  B.  C.  and  500-1000  A.  D.  It 
will  not  be  necessary  to  go  to  Africa 
or  the  upper  Amazon  for  barbarians; 
we  are  producing  a crop  of  quite  ef- 
fective ones  at  home. 

Others,  such  as  E.  T.  Bell  and 
Jose  Ortega  y Gasset,  claim  that, 


88 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


despite  the  manifest  benefits  of  sci- 
ence to  the  average  man,  he  shows 
little  inclination  to  support  it  finan- 
cially or  politically.  Rather,  he  sus- 
pects and  dislikes  the  type  of  skep- 
tical, empirical,  materialistic  thought 
on  which  its  progress  depends.  So 
they  fear  that  the  cult  of  irration- 
ality characteristic  of,  say,  the  Na- 
tional Socialist  leaders  in  Germany 
is  the  forerunner  of  a great  wave  of 
antiscientifie  reaction. 

There  remain  the  optimistic  ma- 
terialists, who  concentrate  on  man’s 
technical  development.  They  tend 
to  be  men  of  technical  background, 
and,  unlike  the  mystic  whitherers, 
they  actually  know  something  about 
the  Machine  (with  a capital  M) . 
(Spengler,  a mystic,  gives  the  Ma- 
chine nine  of  the  nine  hundred  pages 
of  his  big  book.) 

Lewis  Mumford — “Technics  and 
Civilization” — says  that,  while  pre- 
vious civilizations  had  good  enough 
rule-of-thumb  engineering  to  pro- 
duce Roman  roads  and  Egyptian 
pyramids',  ours  is  the  first  to  develop 
a distinctive  logic  and  discipline  of 
the  Machine.  It  was  not  long  in 
starting,  either.  The  barbarous  pe- 
riod of  900-1200  A.  D.  saw  the  in- 
troduction of  such  important  inven- 
tions as  the  iron  horseshoe,  the  horse 
collar,  the  lens,  the  windmill,  and 
central  rudder,  and  the  magnetic 
compass — despite  the  alleged  “Idea- 
tional” nature  that  Sorokin  ascribes 
to  this  period.  These  inventions 
- started  the  first  wave  of  Western 
technical  development. 

Technics  arose  from  the  need  of 
the  monastery  for  accurate  time- 
keeping, of  the  countinghouse  for 
convenient  arithmetic,  of  the  army 
for  knowledge  of  metallurgy,  ballis- 
tics, and  the  geometry  of  fortifica- 
tion, (The  answer  to  the  last  prob- 
lem, descriptive  geometry,  was  a 


French  military  secret  for  some 
years.)  Europe  adopted  and  im- 
proved all  the  inventions  of  other 
societies  it  could  find.  By  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries 
people  like  Sir  Francis  Bacon  were 
talking  about  what  a wonderful  place 
the  world  would  be  once  the  Ma- 
chine got  properly  started.  A lot  of 
that  early  optimism  has  gone,  but 
the  machines  are  certainly  with  us, 
and  are  beating  guinea  pigs  at  the 
latter’s  specialty. 

The  next  wave  of  technics,  the 
Paleotechnic,  was  started  by  the  in- 
vention of  the  steam  engine.  The 
Paleotechnic  period  (1750-date)  saw 
great  technical  advances.  But  it  was 
characterized  by  waste  of  resources 
and  degradation  of  living  conditions. 
The  next  period,  the  Neotechnic,  is 
just  getting  started.  It  is  charac- 
terized by  electric  power,  and  has 
great  possibilities  for  giving  people 
pleasant  living  conditions.  The  main 
obstacles  to  its  blossoming  is  our 
present  capitalistic  system,  which 
will  have  to  be  replaced  by  some- 
thing more  equitable  and  efficient. 
So  says  Mr.  Mumford. 

This  is  a linear  view.  Technical 
development  does  contain  elements 
that  make  such  a view  plausible. 
Burlingame— “March  of  the  Iron 
Men” — points  out  that  once  the 
printing  press  is  established,  a seri- 
ous recession  in  technics  is  hard  to 
conceive.  With  so  many  thousands 
of  copies  of  technical  books  lying 
around,  it  would  be  hard  to  get  rid 
of  them  all  short  of  blowing  up  the 
planet. 

Moreover,  organized  science  intro- 
duces a new  dynamic  factor  into  so- 
cial development.  Toynbee  worries 
about  the  possibility  of  an  eternal 
and  unchanging  scientific  despotism. 
It  seems  to  me  that,  as  long  as  scien- 
tific work  is  being  done,  it  is  likely 
at  any  time  to  erupt  some  new  dis- 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  WHITHERING 


89 


covery  like  ectogenesis — test-tube 
babies- — which  will  drastically  affect 
people’s  lives.  Tire  result  might  be 
better  or  it  might  be  worse,  but  it 
would  certainly  be  different. 

The  “Cause  and  Cure”  experts  re- 
mind one  of  a lot  of  men  looking  at 
those  groups  of  colored  spots  used 
for  color-blindness  tests,  and  all  see- 
ing different  patterns.  The  trouble 
seems  to  be  that  the  spots  are  so 
many  that  by  looking  long  enough 
one  can  find  almost  any  pattern. 
Under  these  conditions,  reading  one’s 
private  prejudices  into  the  data  is 
almost  inevitable. 

The  test  of  a science  is  its  ability 
to  predict — either  in  the  sense  of 
“such-and-such  will  happen  at  noon 
next  Tuesday,”  or  “if  you  do  A,  B 
will/happen  943  times  out  of  a thou- 
sand.” The  record  of  the  science  of 
whithering’s  prophecies,  what  there 
is  of  it,  is  not  encouraging  so  far. 

A century  ago  in  America,  such  in- 
telligent men  as  Clay,  Calhoun,  and 
Webster  knew  the  slavery  issue.  But 
only  one  man,  John  Quincy  Adams, 
is  known  to  have  foreseen  the  Civil 
War.  He,  not  wanting  people  to 
think  him  mad,  prudently  confined 
his  prophecy  to  his  diary.  Before 
the  War  of  1914,  all  the  experts,  pro- 
fessional and  amateur,  were  wrong 
about  its  course — with  one  exception 
again.  A Polish  banker  named  Bloch 
alone  foresaw  the  trench-warfare 
stalemate  that  would  ultimately  be 
decided  by  famine.  And  neither 
Adams  nor  Bloch,  as  far  as  we  know, 
wore  any  halo  to  enable  their  con- 
temporaries to  pick  them  out  as  the 
true  prophets. 

With  these  reservations,  let  us 
see  whether  we  can  find  any  com- 
mon denominator  among  the  whith- 
erers’  ideas.  I warn  you  that,  de- 
spite the  bad  record  of  previous 


whitherers,  I am  going  to  insert  a 
few  ideas  of  my  own. 

A lot  of  them  agree  that  Western 
culture  is  in  a precarious  fix.  These 
people  mostly  hold  the  cyclic  con- 
ception of  history.  If  the  cycle  is  as 
grimly  inevitable  as  some,  of  them 
think,  we  might  as  well  relax. 

But  consider  these  possible  alter- 
natives: (a)  Societies  may  evolve  in 
a linear  manner  on  the  technical 
plane,  but  in  a cyclic  manner  on  the 
social  plane.  (b)  Societies  may 
have  behaved  in  a cyclic  fashion  un- 
til the  Machine  introduced  such  a 
powerful  new  linear  factor  as  to  start 
us  off  on  a new  course  of  historical 
development.  (c)  Instead  of  our 
living  near  the  end  of  the  cycle,  or 
"at  the  beginning  of  the  decline,  of 
.Western  culture,  this  culture  may  be 
already  disappearing  down  the  gul- 
let of  a new  culture,  the  Industrial, 
which  is  at  the  beginning  of  its  cycle. 

I should  say  that  (b)  looks  the 
most  probable.  There  are  reasons 
for  believing  that  machine  tech- 
nology has  broken  whatever  cyclical 
series  existed,  largely  because  people 
seem  to  remember  and  profit  by  ex- 
perience in  technical  development 
much  more  than  they  do  in  political 
and  social  development.  This  in 
turn,  I should  say,'  was  not  due  to 
shortcomings  on  the  part  of  people 
so  much  as  to  the  fact  that  most  of 
the  lessons  of  technical  experience 
are  written  in  much  plainer  language. 
A properly  designed  rudder  will  al- 
ways steer  a boat,  but  a “properly” 
chosen  statesman  may,  -for  no  visible 
reason,  turn  into  a bloody  tyrant. 

Quite  a few  whitherers  believe  in 
an  impending  swing  away  from  sci- 
ence and  materialism  toward  religi- 
osity and  mysticism.  This  belief  is 
supported  by  the  recent  efforts  to 
squeeze  science  into  the  mold  of  a 
political  dogma,  especially  in  Ger- 


90 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


many  and  Russia.  The  success  of 
such  moves  would  certainly  handi- 
cap or  halt  progress  in  those  fields. 
But  they  might  or  might  not  prove 
the  start  of  a world-wide  movement. 
After  all  the  Church  did  to  Gallileo, 
we  have  still  come  around  to  believ- 
ing that  Jupiter  has  moons. 

Possibilities:  (a)  Men  may  re- 

quire hope  of  some  sort  of  heaven 
and/or  fear  of  some  sort  of  hell  to 
make  them  behave,  whether  or  not 
such  things  exist,  (b)  • Men  may 
have  a deep-rooted  desire  for  a faith 
in  which  they  can  irrationally  be- 
lieve, regardless  of  whether  such  a 
belief  is  either  necessary  for  their 
welfare  or  true. 

Personally,  T consider  both  propo-w 
sitions  possible  but  improbable.  7/ 
(a)  is  true,  the  loss  of  religion  may 
result  in  the  kind  of  ruthless,  tricky 
struggle  of  everyone  against  every- 
one else  that  Spengler  calls  Csesar- 
ism.  But  such  a state  of  affairs 
has  existed  before  in  quite  pious  com- 
munities, so  religious  faith,  what- 
ever its  virtues,  seems  inadequate  to 
prevent  it,  anyway.  If  (b)  is  true. 


Benevolent  despotism  is  a wonder- 
ful thing — while  it’s  benevolent. 
Trouble  is,  it’s  apt  to  change 
from  “benevolent"  to  “fanatic”! 


and  if  science  finally  leaves  the 
churches  no  ground  to  stand  on  but 
a vague  benevolence,  we  might  see 
this  alleged  urge  appear  in  the  form 
of  political  or  economic  fanaticisms. 

To  illustrate:  Since  Communists 

consider  their  outlook  scientific,  they 
would  call  a triumph  of  Communism 
a victory  for  science.  But  to  an  em- 
piricist it  w'ould  look  more  like  the 
triumph  of  a religion  of  a newfan- 
gled, politico-economic  kind.  If 
Marxism  is  not  a religion  in  a strict 
sense,  the  outlook  and  tactics  of  the 
Marxists  look  suspiciously  like  those 
of  the  early  leaders  of  Protestantism 
and  Islam. 

Several  whitherers  foresee  the 
grow  111  of  the  size  of  governmental 
units,  in  many  cases  until  the  world 
is  under  one  single  government. 
There  seems  to  have  been  a tend- 
ency for  some  centuries  for  the 
larger  States  to  swallow  the  smaller. 
This  tendency  has  been  interrupted 
at  times,  the  last  time  after  the  War 
of  1914.  But  it  now'  seems  to  have 
resumed  its  course.  As  far  as  one 
can  tell,  large  States  are,  on  the  av- 
erage, neither  more  nor  less  efficient, 
honest,  humane,  democratic,  et  cet- 
era, than  small.  But  they  do  have 
greater  manpower,  and,  other  things 
being  equal,  greater  strength. 

Toynbee  points  out  that  a civili- 
zation often  springs  up  with  a group 
of  little  States,  and  that  under  its 
influence  a set  of  great  powers  grow 
up  around  the  margin  which  eventu- 
ally swallow  the  little  States.  Thus 
we  have  Macedonia,  Carthage,  and 
Rome  growing  up  around  the  Greek 
patchwork,  and  the  powers  of  Eu- 
rope growing  up  around  the  medie- 
val Italian  patchwork.  There  may 
be  a parallel  with  growth  of  the  Brit- 
ish Empire,  the  United  States,  and 
the  U.  S.  S.  R.  on  the  fringes  of  sub- 
divided Europe. 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  WHITHERING 


91 


A world  State  does  not  seem  im- 
possible eventually,  though  as  yet 
the  components  seem  pretty  hetero- 
geneous for  world-union  material.  It 
would  probably  give  us  a peaceful 
world — at  least  most  of  the  time. 
But_the  type  of  government  at  the 
top  might  or  might  not  be  the  kind 
we’d  like.  It  might  be  a predatory 
tyranny.  As  Spengler  remarks: 
“ — world  peace — which  has  often  ex- 
isted in  fact — involves  the  private 
renunciation  of  war  on  the  part  of 
the  immense  majority,  but  along 
with  this  it  involves  an  unavowed 
readiness  to  submit  to  being  the 
booty  of  others  who  do  not  renounce 
it.” 

Fob  the  prevailing  form  of  future 
governments — whether  world-State 
or  parochial-State — lots  of  people 
have  made  assertions,  but  McKin- 
ley’s theory  of  connection  between 
the  technique  of  war  and  the  form 
of  government  seems  to  me  like  the 
only  one  with  a factual  basis. 

We  may  consider  some  tendencies 
on  the  part  of  human  beings  that 
seem  to  be  well  established: 

(a)  People  having  a community 
of  interest,  and  means  of  getting  to- 
gether, sooner  or  later  combine  to 
make  their  common  interest  effec- 
tive. That’s  one  of  the  ways  you 
know  that  men  are  more  intelligent 
than  other  animals.  It  follows  that 
the  free-trade,  open-market,  free- 
competition  ideal  of  Adam  Smith 
and  his  successors  seems  unattain- 
able; or,  if  imposed  from  above, 
would  likely  prove  unstable  in  prac- 
tice. Sooner  or  later  the  business- 
men would  get  together  to  force 
wages  down  and  prices  up,  to  raise 
tariffs,  et  cetera.  The  workingmen 
would  get  together  to  force  wages  up, 
to  prevent  immigration  of  persons 
who  would  compete  with  them,  et 
cetera.  Each  would,  of  course,  ac- 


cuse the  other  of  doing  very  wicked 
things.  But  the  fact  is  that  groups 
will  organize,  and  unless  other  groups 
keep  them  in  check  they  will  proceed 
from  the  defense  of  what  they  con- 
sider their  “rights”  to  the  suppres- 
sion of  the  “rights”  of  everyone  else. 
But  any  representative  government 
is,  inherently,  not  a power  in  its  own 
right,  but  an  instrument  for  whose 
control  the  various  interested  groups 
wrestle.  The  spectacle  distresses 
some  people.  But  when  the  wres- 
tling ceases,  the  meaning  is  not  that 
all  the  groups  are  now'  working  in 
harmony,  but  that  one  of  them  has 
gotten  exclusive  control  of  the  in- 
strument, and  the  others  are  out  of 
luck. 

(b)  No  really  large  group  of  peo- 
ple can  all  take  part  in  the  running 
of  their  common  affairs.  So  there 
has  to  be  delegation  of  pow'er.  Hence 
there  is  really  no  such  thing  as  the 
dictatorship  ot  a class.  There  may 
be  dictatorship  of  a small  group  of 
executives  within  a class,  the  rest  of 
the  class  retaining  a greater  or  less 
degree  of  control  over  them.  The 
ruled  will  in  general  retain  just  as 
much  control  over  their  rulers  as 
they  are  both  anxious  and  able  to. 
When  scientists  learn  to  grow  pussy 
cats  on  pine  trees,  then  maybe  it  will 
be  possible  to  trust  a ruler  with  ir- 
responsible power  without  his  using 
it  to  reward  his  friends,  suppress  his 
enemies,  and  perpetuate  and  aggran- 
dize his  own  position. 

Incidentally,  there  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  (a)  we  shall  ever  be 
governed  by  a soviet  of  engineers  or 
scientists,  or  (b)  that  such  an  ar- 
rangement would  be  any  more  sat- 
isfactory to  the  governed  than  any 
other  form  of  irresponsible  rule. 
Scientists  and  politicians  are  both 
merely  human  beings,  some  good, 
some  bad,  and  the  majority  indiffer- 
ent. Each  occupation  is  a full-time 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


job  requiring  certain  special  abili- 
ties. The  qualities  that  make  for 
political  success  under  a responsible 
government  differ  somewhat  from 
the  corresponding  qualities  under  an 
irresponsible  one;  oratory  is  more 
important  in  the  first  and  skill  at 
intrigue  in  the  second.  But  neither 
quality  is  one  for  which  scientists, 
as  a class,  are  noted.  And  the  men- 
tal equipment  of  a good  scientist 
might  well  prove  a hopeless  handi- 
cap in  a political  career. 

Technical  development  seems 
likely  to  go  on  at  a swift  pace  for  as 
far  ahead  as  we  can  see.  Note  that, 
whereas  some  of  the  earlier  theorists 
thought  a degree  of  mechanization 
as  high  as  ours  would  surely  abolish 
poverty,  we  still  have  plenty  of  that. 
A possible  clue  to  the  reason  is  the 
little-noted  fact  that  most  of  our 
technical  developments  have  taken 
place  in  the  field  of  pleasing  but  non- 
essential  gadgets,  while  the  produc- 
tion of  food,  clothing,  and  shelter, 
although  somewhat  improved  during 
the  last  few  centuries,  is  still  rela- 
tively primitive.  Hence  a man  with 
a low  income,  having  to  spend  nearly 
as  much  on  the  necessities  of  life  as 
he  would  have  a century  ago,  has 
little  margin  left  over  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  all  our  wonderful  nonessen- 
tial improvements.  Today  we  see 
the  first  stirring  of  what  may  turn 
out  to  be  revolutions  in  the  produc- 
tion of  food  and  houses.  Until  such 
a change  occurs,  we  had  better  not 
count  on  an  era  of  plenty  for  every- 
body. 

Another  mistake  we  may  make  is 
in  assuming  that  technical  develop- 
ment will  continue  in  all  fields  at  a 
headlong  pace  forever.  There  will  be 
discoveries  in  some  field  or  other  as 
long  as  there  are  men  on  Earth,  per- 
haps. But  it  is  not  inconceivable 
that,  at  least  in  fields  of  applied  sci- 


ence such  as  automotive  engineering, 
progress  may  not  eventually  slow  up 
to  a dawdle  as  design  approaches  the 
maximum  possible  efficiency  and 
comfort.  Of  course,  such  an  idea  is 
heresy  in  modern  scientific  circles. 
The  example  is  pointed  out  of  the 
Patent  Office  official  who  resigned, 
back  in  the  last  century,  because  he 
was  convinced  that  all  the  important 
inventions  had  already  been  made. 
But  remember  that  until  a few  cen- 
turies ago,  men  lived  in  a world  that 
changed  so  slowly  that  they  believed 
it  did  not  and  would  not  change  at 
all,  ever.  They  were  wrong.  If  we, 
simply  because  we  live  in  a chang- 
ing world,  assume  that  change  will 
continue  forever,  we  may  be  mak- 
ing the  same  mistake  in  another 
form. 

These  suggestions  of  mine  about 
the  future  don’t  pretend  to  be  more 
than  guesses;  too  many  other  whith- 
erers  have  come  to  grief  with  confi- 
dent predictions  for  me  to  care  to 
imitate  them.  I am  willing  to 
prophesy  confidently  that  for  many 
years  to  come  American  men  will 
wear  pants  and  speak  English.  But 
that’s  about  all;  for  detailed  prophe- 
cies about  the  future  of  Western  civ- 
ilization, the  data  simply  don’t  exist. 

Perhaps  time  will  give  us  enough 
extra  information  to  build  an  exact 
science  of  whithering.  If  We  are  on 
the  threshold  of  a single  long-lived 
world-civilization,  we  may  never 
solve  the  problem  of  the  rise  and  fall 
of  societies,  because  the  number  of 
specimens  available — as  Spengler’s 
eleven  or  Toynbee’s  nineteen — is  too 
small  for  effective  statistical  treat- 
ment. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  encourage  the 
fascinating  study  of  whithering,  in 
the  hope  that  it  will  grow  up  from 
its  present  embryonic  state  into  a 
big,  healthy  science.  Until  it  does. 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  WHITHERING 


93 


we  must,  as  far  as  the  future  is  con- 
cerned, agree  with  the  late  Justice 
Holmes  that  “we  are  private  soldiers 
in  an  army,  and  the  plan  of  cam- 
paign, if  there  is  a plan,  has  not  been 
confided  to  us.” 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

(Many  of  these  books  are  quite  expensive. 
Those  starred  are  recommended  as  reason- 
able in  both  price  and  content.  Some  of 
those  not  starred  are  good  books,  but  are 
not  primarily  about  whithering.) 

*Beard,  “The  Discussion  of  Human  Af- 
fairs” 

Bell.  “The  Search  for  Truth” 

Burlingame,  “March  of  the  Iron  Men” 
Casson,  "Progress  and  Catastrophe” 

*Catlin,  "The  Story  of  the  Political  Philoso- 
phers” 

Grant,  “The  Passing  of  the  Great  Race” 
*Huxley,  “Brave  New  World”  (a  futuristic 
novel,  astutely  thought  out) 


Klineberg,  "Race  Differences” 

Linton,  “The  Study  of  Man” 

Marx,  “Capital,”  “The  Communist  Mani- 
festo” 

*McKinley,  “Democracy  and  Military 
Power” 

Moss,  “The  Birth  of  the  Middle  Ages” 
*Mumford,  “Technics  and  Civilization” 
Ortega  y Gasset,  “The  Revolt  of  the 
Masses” 

Pareto,  “The  Mind  and  Society  (Treatise 
on  General  Sociology)  ” (4  vols.) 

Pitkin,  “A  Short  Introduction  to  the  His- 
tory of  Human  Stupidity” 

Sorokin,  “Social  and  Cultural  Dynamics”  (3 
vols.  out,  1 promised) 

Soule,  “The  Coming  American  Revolution” 
Stoddard,  “Racial  Realities  in  Europe” 
Spengler,  “The  Decline  of  the  West” 
Strachey,  “The  Coming  Struggle  for  Power” 
Sumner,  “Folkways” 

Toynbee,  “A  Study  of  History”  (6  vols. 
out,  3 promised.  Excellent,  but  $7  a 
volume) 

L.  S.  de  C. 


THE  END. 


UPSET  STOMACH 


ONIONS 


TOBACCO 


THROAT  EASE 


BREATH  SWEETENER  . . . DELIGHTFUL  CONFECTION 


DENTAL 

DECAY- 

J^UQUOR 

♦ 

91 


The  tank  shuddered  to  a stop  at  the  brim  of  that  frightful, 
unscalable  chasm.  And  down  there  was  the  only  hope  of  life — 


05 


CLERICAL  ERROR 

By  Clifford  D.  Simak 

It's  easy  for  a shipping  clerk  on  comfortable  Earth 
to  make  a minor  error — but  God  help  the  boys  on 
Jupiter  when  that  wrong  shipment  comes  through! 

Illustrated  b;'  W.  A.  Koll 


Fred  Franklin  knew,  better  than 
any  of  the  rest,  that  death  was  clos- 
ing in  on  them.  But  he  wasn’t 
scared.  He  was  just  hopping  mad 
— sore  clean  through  because  those 
beautiful  engines  of  his  down  in  the 
Hive’s  sub-floor  wouldn’t  run  much 
longer. 

Fred  lived  for  his  engines.  He 
liked  the  swift,  smooth  hum  of 
power,  the  blurring  whirl  of  alterna- 
tors, the  exact  meshing  of  whirring 
gears. 

His  great,  grease-stained  hands 
twitched — as  if  they  were  groping 
for  someone’s  throat. 

“If  I could  just  get  my  hands  on 
that  guy  back  on  Earth,”  he  bel- 
lowed. 

“Whoever  he  was,  he’ll  probably 
get  canned,”  said  Bill  Vickers. 
“Some  shipping  clerk,  perhaps.  A 
mistake  the  inspectors  should  have 
caught.” 

“Sure,”  growled  Fred,  “the  ship- 
ping clerk’ll  get  canned.  We’ll  die.” 

Vickers  looked  at  the  atomic  engi- 
neer soberly.  “Just  how  much  longer 
can  you  keep  them  going,  Fred?” 

The  engineer  exploded.  “You  ask 
me  that?  I’ll  tell  you  this — I’ll  keep 
them  going  until  the  *combustion 
chamber  goes  up  in  smoke,  and  when 
that  happens  we  don’t  need  to  worry 
any  more.” 

Vickers  shivered,  envisioning  what 
would  happen  when  that  occurred — 


if  it  did  occur.  He  could  see  the 
force  of  uncontrolled  atomic  power 
lashing  through  the  engine  rooms, 
ripping  through  the  entire  dome. 

“The  mercotite  is  wearing  thin,” 
said.  Fred.  “Too  damn  thin  for 
safety.  If  we  keep  that  blast  cham- 
ber going,  we  have  to  have  mercotite 
— the  mei'cotite  that  should  have 
been  in  those  boxes  and  wasn’t.” 

He  spat  bitterly. 

“Copper!  What  the  hell  would  we 
want  of  copper?” 

“I’ve  called  in  all  the  tractors,” 
said  Vickers.  “All  of  them  have  re- 
ported except  old  Cal  Osborn,  and 
he  was  drunk  the  last  time  I talked 
to  him.  Maybe  he’ll  show  lip  after 
a while.  As  fast  as  those  tractors 
come  in  you  rip  out  the  mercotite  in 
their  combustion  chambers,  use  it  to 
patch  up  and  strengthen  the  big- 
chamber.  I know  it  won’t  go  far, 
but  it  will  help.  Every  minute  we 
keep  those  engines'  going,  every  min- 
ute we  keep  juice  pouring  into  these 
walls  is  just  that  much  longer  for  us 
to  live.  When  those  engines  stop, 
we  stop,  too.  We  all  know  that.” 
“You’ve  called  in  the  men?”  asked 
Dr.  Norman  Lester.  “Does  that 
mean  you’ve  given  up  finding  the 
ship?” 

Vickers  swung  around  to  face  the 
gray-haired  man. 

“No,”  he  snapped.  “We  have  to 
call  those  tractors  in  to  get  merco- 


93 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


tile.  But  we  aren’t  giving  up  the 
search.  I’m  going  out  myself,  and 
I’m  coming  back  with  the  mercotite 
the  Jovian  Ark  was  carrying  or  I 
don’t  come  back  at  all.  Benny  here 
claims  the  ship  was  coming  in  over 
Mount  Bellow  when  the  signals  cut 
off.  It  must  have  struck  somewhere 
over  on  the  other  side.” 

“That’s  right,”  said  Benny  Kern, 
the  radio  man.  “She  was  coming  in 
just  north  of  us,  still  pretty  high  up, 
and  having  a bad  time  in  the  storm. 
Reception  wasn’t  so  good,  but  I was 
dragging  her  in.  She  was  riding  the 
directional  beam,  although  it  must 
have  been  pretty  spotty.  The  sky 
was  full  of  lightning.” 

“All  very  pretty,”  said  Dr.  Lester, 
“but  not  very  convincing.  The  men 
who  were  out  searching  combed  that 
mountain.  How  do  you  figure  you’ll 
find  anything  when  they  didn’t?” 

“Look  here,”  snarled  Fred,  “you 
keep  out  of  this.  A hell  of  a lot 
you’ve  done.  We  tried  to  get  you  to 
help  develop  a substitute  for  merco- 
tite. All  the  scientific  equipment  in 
the  world,  all  the  metal  on  Jupiter, 
and  what  did  you  do?  Not  one 
damn  thing'.” 

“I’m  a biologist,”  said  Lester, 
“and  I don’t  know  a thing  about 
metals.  Neither  do  my  men.” 

“If  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  storm,” 
said  Vickers,  “we  would  be  all  set. 
The  rotors  were  ready  to  operate, 
but  the  wind  twisted  them  into  scrap 
metal — ■” 

One  expects  a two-hundred-mile- 
an-hour  wind  on  Jupiter.  It  is  just 
an  everyday  affair — a gentle  breeze 
that  eddies  and  whirls  about  the 
giant  planet.  It  doesn’t  really  get 
gusty  until  the  wind  starts  blowing 
at  five  hundred  miles  an  hour.  When 
it  gets  up  over  the  thousand-mile- 
an-hour  mark,  it  might  be  called  a 


gale.  Beyond  that  it  would  be  a 
storm. 

Jupiter’s  atmosphere  is  thick  and 
heavy,  composed  of  nitrogen  and  hy- 
drogen— mostly  hydrogen — and  of  a 
souplike  consistency.  At  two  hun- 
dred miles  an  hour  such  an  atmos- 
phere would  turn  mighty  rotors,  be 
the  source  of  tremendous  power, 
power  such  as  was  needed  to  main- 
tain the  Hive  under  the  ghastly  pres- 
sures on  Jupiter’s  surface.  But  at  a 
thousand  miles  an  hour,  it  would 
simply  smash  rotors  into  junk  heaps. 
That  was  what  had  happened. 

The  Hive  had  been  built  five  years 
before  by  the  first  spaceships  ever  to 
reach  the  surface  of  the  Solar  Sys- 
tem’s largest  member. 

It  had  been  built  by  robots,  oper- 
ated from  the  ships  by  remote  con- 
trol. For  while  man  might  build  on 
Jupiter  and  live  on  Jupiter,  and 
even,  in  time  to  come,  conquer  Jupi- 
ter, man  never  would  be  able  to  walk 
on  Jupiter,  never  would  dare  to  ven- 
ture out  on  solid  ground. 

The  gravity  wasn’t  so  bad.  Only 
two  and  one  half  times  Earth 
gravity.  Bad  enough,  but  possible 
to  fit  men  for  it  in  Earth’s  condi- 
tioning chambers. 

But  the  pressure  was  something 
else.  Pressure  that  would  make 

earthly  sea-bottom  pressure  seem  al- 
most like  a vacuum.  Pressure  that 
would  turn  even  steel  brittle  and 
shatter  it  into  a million  flaky  shards. 

Men  had  lived  on  Jupiter  for  five 
years  now,  but  in  all  that  time  no 
man  had  ever  set  foot  upon  the 
planet,  had  ever  viewed  its  surface 
with  the  naked  eye. 

The  Hive  was  constructed  of  an 
inner  shell  of  durasteel,  the  tough- 
est, most  stubborn  alloy  man  had 
ever  devised,  and  yet,  in  itself,  not 
capable  of  standing  up  under  the 
weight  of  Jupiter’s  vast  atmosphere. 

Stepping  up  of  the  durasteel’s 


CLERICAL  ERROR 


97 


electronic  tension  had  made  it  possi- 
ble to  construct  the  dome.  But  to 
maintain  that  electronic  tension  tre- 
mendous power  was  needed — power 
such  as  only  could  be  supplied  by 
bursting  atoms,  or  the  winds  of  Jupi- 
ter’s own  atmosphere. 

Over  the  shell  of  durasteel  was 
fused  another  shell  of  quartz,  this  to 
protect  the  alloy  against  the  alkaline 
rains  that  poured  almost  continu- 
ously from  the  heavy  clouds. 

The  same  construction  applied  to 
the  spaceships -which  ventured  down 
to  Jupiter’s  surface,  to  the  tractors 
that  carried  men  over  its  surface,  to 
the  scurrying  mechanisms,  the  ro- 
bots that  serve  as  men’s  hands  on 
the  Solar  System’s  weirdest  planet. 

No  mere  haphazard  adventure  had 
led  men  to  brave  the  dangers  of 
Jupiter,  but  stark  necessity.  The 
establishment  of  the  Hive  had  been 
almost  in  the  nature  of  a last  des- 
perate effort — a final  fling  of  the 
dice  that  might  spell  life  or  death  for 
every  living  thing  upon  the  planets. 

For  out  beyond  Jupiter’s  dense 
atmosphere  stalked  a plague,  a 
deadly  plague  that  defied  all  medi- 
cines. It  had  originated  on  Mars, 
which  probably  explained  the  fact 
the  first  men  to  reach  that  planet 
had  found  no  trace  of  life  but  ample 
evidence  life  had  existed  in  the  past. 

For  years  that  deadly  germ  had 
lain  in  wait,  and  with  the  coming  of 
man  had  sprung  to  life  again.  From 
Mars  it  had  gone  to  Earth,  carried 
there  in  spaceships,  in  the  bodies  of 
its  victims.  From  Earth  to  Venus 
and  Mercury,  to  the  few  inhabited 
asteroids.  A plague  that  swept  the 
worlds,  that  fastened  not  alone  on 
man,  but  on  every  living  thing, 
threatening  the  extinction  of  all  life. 

Frantic  research  netted  exactly 
nothing.  The  germ  was  isolated  and 
recognized,  but  defied  every  attempt 
at  control. 


In  desperation,  overlooking  no 
possibility  of  checking  the  plague’s 
advance,  a Jupiter  expedition  had 
been  fitted  out.  For  on  Jupiter,  it 
was  said,  one  would  find  a com- 
pletely alien  chemistry — a chemistry 
that  might  give  some  clue,  might 
lead  to  some  method  that  would  stop 
the  plague. 

The  first  expedition  failed,  one 
lone  ship  winning  its  way  back  to 
the  Earth.  The  second  expedition 
failed.  But  the  third,  profiting  from 
the  tragedies  of  the  other  two,  won 
its  way  through,  built  the  Hive,  in- 
stalled in  it  the  machinery  necessary 
for  life. 

A fourth  expedition  brought  the 
chemists  and  biologists. 

Three  years  of  fruitless  effort  fol- 
lowed. 

Jupiter’s  chemistry  was  alien, 
there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  So  alien, 
in  fact,  the  research  staff  took 
months  to  orient  itself. 

There  was  life  on  Jupiter — weird 
plant  life,  weirder  animal  life.  Life 
based  on  ammonia  and  hydrogen, 
life  that  simply  evaporated  at  pres- 
sures and  temperatures  normal  to 
Earth. 

Animal  life  was  small  and  vicious, 
its  metabolism  the  reverse  of  Earth- 
animal  life,  based  on  oxidation,  foods 
and  reducing  air. 

Examined  microscopically,  chemi- 
cally, bacteriologically,  spectro- 
graphically,  Jupiter’s  life  yielded 
many,  secrets — yet  not  the  one  the 
scientists  were  seeking. 

But  success  finally  came.  In  the 
gland  of  one  small  animal — dubbed 
the  rooter  because  of  its  manner  of 
getting  food — was  found  the  cure  for 
the  deadly  plague,  and  suddenly  the 
Hive  on  Jupiter  became  the  center 
of  the  Solar  System’s  hope. 

Now,  two  years  after  the  discov- 
ery of  the  gland’s  properties,  the 
fight  against  the  plague  was  still  go- 


98 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


ing  on,  and  the  tide  was  turning, 
slowly  turning,  in  mankind’s  favor. 
But,  as  was  to  be  expected,  man 
could  extract  that  product  of  an 
alien  metabolism — but  couldn’t 

make  it. 

Bill  Vickers  stared  at  the  televi- 
sion screen  and  groaned. 

It  was  raining  again,  driving 
sheets  of  liquid  ammonia,  deathly 
cold,  lashing  against  the  eastern  cliffs 
that  were  the  lower  slopes  of  Mount 
Bellow.  Rain  driven  by  the  ordi- 
nary everyday  wind  howling  along 
at  two  hundred  miles  an  hour. 

He  shifted  the  screen’s  vision  an- 
gle, saw  the  pens  in  which  hundreds 
of  rooters  were  kept.  The  rooters 
that  were  the  hope  of  the  Solar  Sys- 
tem, tenderly  cared  for,  bred,  raised, 
killed  for  their  miraculous  glands. 

A half  dozen  robots  were  coming 
across  the  valley,  carrying  loads  of 
the  tubers  which  served  as  the  root- 
ers’ food.  Xot  the  manlike  kind  of 
robots  many  families  on  Earth  kept 
as  servants,  but  complicated,  com- 
plex machines,  adapted  to  do  the 
work  man  himself  could  not  do — 
the  machines  that  must  'serve  as 
proxies  for  men  on  this  outlandish 
planet. 

“Fred,”  said  Bill,  “when  the  Hive 
goes  it  means  the  lives  of  millions  of 
people  out  on  those  other  planets. 
It  will  set  back  the  fight  against  the 
plague  a good  five  years.  They’ll 
have  to  build  another  Hive.  They’ll 
have  to  round  up  a new  rooter 
stock.” 

“And  all,”  said  the  engineer  bit- 
terly, “because  some  muddle-headed 
clerk  sent  out  copper  instead  of  mer- 
cotite.” 

Bill  nodded. 

He  could  remember  that  day, 
weeks  before,  when  they  had  ripped 
open  the  boxes  to  get  a new  supply 
of  mercotite  to  reline  the  atomic 


combustion  chamber.  Box  after 
box — all  copper,  no  mercotite. 

Mercotite — a wondrous  metal, 
found  only  on  the  sunward  side  of 
the  planet  Mercury.  The  only  metal 
known  that  would  stand  up  under 
the  blast  of  disintegrating  atoms. 
Without  mercotite,  one  could  not 
control  atomic  power — and  without 
controlled  atomic  power,  the  Hive 
was  doomed.  Once  stop  the  flow  of 
energy  into  the  durasteel  walls  and 
the  dome  would  be  shattered  by  the 
pressure. 

Somewhere  out  there  on  the  other 
side  of  Mount  Bellow  lay  the  Jovian 
Ark,  carrying  a new  supply  of  merco- 
tite. Out  there  on  the  rim  of  the 
valley,  also  wrecked  by  the  same 
storm  which  had  wrecked  the  space- 
ship, lay  the  twisted  rotors,  set  up 
after  long  weeks  of  work  in  the  hope 
they  would  supply  sufficient  power 
to  maintain  the  dome  in  case  the  ship 
failed  to  arrive  on  time. 

“I  got  enough  metal  out  of  the 
tractors  to  patch  the  chamber  up 
some,”  said  Fred,  “but  at  the’best  it 
won’t  hold  out  long.  It’s  getting 
thin  in  places  again.  Let  that  atomic 
blast  once  hit  steel  and  it’s  all  up 
with  us.” 

He  stared  at  the  televisor. 

“Maybe  we  ought  to  pull  in  all  the 
robots,”  he  said.  “Their  combustion 
chambers  are  pretty  small,  but  we 
could  get  some  metal  out  of  them.” 

“Pull  in  all  you  want,”  said  Vick- 
ers. “I’m  going  out  and  have  a shot 
at  finding  the  Ark,  but  I guess  Doc 
Lester  is  right.  There  isn’t  much 
chance  of  my  finding  it  when  all  the 
others  failed.” 

“Any  word  from  Old  Cal?”  asked 
Fred. 

Vickers  shook  his  head.  “He  was 
blind  drunk  when  he  called  in  last 
tune.  He  has  a stock-  of  liquor 
cached  somewhere  and  slips  out  with 
a bottle  every  once  in  a while.  It’s 


CLERICAL  ERROR 


99 


a wonder  he  hasn’t  killed  himself  a 
dozen  times.  Out  wandering  around 
with  a tractor,  carrying  a bellyful  of 
rotgut.” 

Benny  Kern  stuck  his  head  out  of 
the  radio  room. 

“Call  for  you,”  he  shouted.  “Old 
Cal.” 

Vickers’  thumb  tripped  a tumbler 
on  the  panel  set  in  his  desk.  The  vi- 
sion screen  flickered  for  a moment, 
synchronizing.  Then  the  face  of  Old 
Cal  Osborn  stared  out  at  him. 

“Hi,  kid,”  yelped  Cal.  “How  are 
you  ? Have  a drink  on  me.” 

He  waved  a bottle  aloft,  took  a 
gusty  drink  and  wiped  his  mouth. 

“Where  are  you?”  Vickers  raged. 
“Didn’t  you  get  my  call?  Why 
didn’t  you  come  in?” 

Old  Cal  stared  owlishly  out  of  the 
screen. 

“What  the  hell?”  he  said.  “We’re 
going  to  die,  anyhow,  ain’t  we?  No 
mercotite,  no  power — no  power,  no 
Hive—” 

He  hiccupped  and  looked  embar- 
rassed. 

“You’re  drunk,”  snapped  Vickers. 

“Look,  sonny,”  Old  Cal  mumbled, 
“don’t  be  too  hard  on  an  old  man. 
An  old  bird  that  knows  he’s  going  to 
die  has  got  to  have  a fling.  Just  one 
more  drunk,  I tells  myself — just  one 
more,  so  I sneaked  aboard  a couple 
gallons  of  the  stuff.  I says  to  my- 
self: ‘Billy  Vickers  won’t  mind,  be- 
cause he’ll  understand.’  Besides — ” 

“Besides  what?”  yelled  Vickers. 

“AVell,  I found  the  ship.” 

“The  ship?” 

“Sure,  sonny,  you  know  the  ship 
I mean.  The  Jovian  Ark.” 

“You  found  the  Jovian  Ark!” 

“That’s  right,  but  it  won’t  do  us 
any  good.  Not  one  damned  bit  of 
good,  sonny.  Because,  you  see,  it’s 
at  the  bottom  of  a canyon.  All 
smashed  to  hell  and  you  can’t  get  to 
it.” 

AST— 7 


Vickers  smashed  the  top  of  his 
desk  a blow  with  his  fist. 

“I  don’t  care  where  it  is,”  he 
shouted.  “Just  so  we’ve  found  it. 
We’ll  reach  it  somehow!” 

Vickers  drove  savagely.  In  the 
television  screen  set  in  front  of  the 
controls  he  saw  his  fog  lamps  cut- 
ting deep  swaths  of  light  into  the 
fury  of  the  slashing,  howling  ele- 
ments. 

The  liquid  ammonia  rain,  whipped 
by  the  shrieking  wind,  was  a blind- 
ing maelstrom.  Jagged  lightning 
streaked  across  the  clouds  and  ripped 
around  the  top  of  Mount  Bellow. 
Weird  vegetative  formations  seemed 
like  gray  ghosts  in  the  driving  rain, 
while  ahead  of  the  tractor  rolled  four 
metal  machines,  four  robots  to  help 
get  at  the  shattered  Jovian  Ark. 

Scurrying  gray  and  red  things 
scuttled  out  of  the  path  of  the  light. 
Once  one  of  them  hurled  itself  in  a 
streaking  charge  at  one  of  the  ro- 
bots, slammed  hard  against  the 
metal  of  the  machine,  rolled  to  the 
ground  and  charged  again,  retreat- 
ing into  the  dimness  of  the  rain  only 
after  its  fury  had  worn  out. 

Vicious  little  things.  Poison  mean. 
Intelligent,  too,  many  of  them — but 
just  how  intelligent  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  know. 

No  big  life  on  Jupiter,  for  big  life 
simply  couldn’t  live  under  the  awful 
pressure.  Here  life  had  to  be  small 
and  quick,  life  built  to  hug  the 
ground. 

The  tractor  skidded  dangerously 
as  the  treads  slid  on  smooth  rock. 
Vickers  spun  the  wheel,  cursing.  An 
upset  now,  damaging  the  machine, 
would  spell  the  end.  For  this  was 
the  only  tractor  available.  All  the 
others  had  been  dismantled  to  sup- 
ply metal  for  patching  the  disin- 
tegration chamber. 

But  speed  was  necessary.  The 


100 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


mercotile  would  hold  out  a few  more 
hours,  and  that  was  all. 

He  cursed  as  he  thought  of  it— 
but  his  curses  were  more  like  a 
chanted  prayer. 

Damn  this  planet!  Damn  Jupiter! 
A place  where  a man  couldn’t  walk 
on  the  surface,  couldn’t  see  with  the 
naked  eye.  Had  to  crawl  around  in 
tractors.  Had  to  use  television  be- 
cause it  was  simply  impossible  to 
build  vision  ports  that  would  stand 
up.  A place  where  radio  would  op- 
erate only  a few  miles,  and  at  that 
was  erratic.  No  chance  of  talking 
to  Earth — for  no  signals  could  reach 
higher  than  fifty  miles  into  that 
seething  atmosphere. 

He  checked  his  directional  charts, 
holding  his  breath,  hoping  they  were 
right.  A man  couldn’t  always  be 
sure  on  a world  like  this.  A world 
of  terrible  cold — 120  below  Centi- 
grade— of  vast  pressure,  of  alien 
chemistry  and  metallurgy. 

He  could  hear  the  roaring  of  the 
wind  in  the  high  notches  and  passes 
of  Mount  Bellow,  the  thunderous 
roaring  that  had  won  the  peak  its 
two  names — Mount  Bellow  on  one 
side  of  the  valley,  Mount  Shriek  on 
the  other  side. 

He  flipped  over  the  radio  control, 
yelled  into  the  mike. 

“Cal.  Cal  Osborn!” 

The  radio  crackled  and  chortled, 
then  Cal’s  ghostly  voice  came 
through. 

“That  you,  sonny?” 

“Yes,  Cal.  Have  you  found  any- 
thing?” 

“Not  a thing,”  Cal  replied.  “I’ve 
looked  her  over  from  stem  to  stern, 
and  there  ain’t  no  way  of  getting 
down.  Its  source  is  right  under  a 
cliff,  and  its  mouth  is  blocked  by  a 
landslide.  If  we  had  the  time  we 
might  turn  heaters  on  her,  wear  it 
down.” 

“We  haven’t  got  the  time,” 


snapped  Vickers.  “And  if  we  tried 
heaters  we’d  probably  bring  the 
whole  mountain  down  on  top  of  us.” 

“Boy,”  said  Cal,  “them  fellows 
must  have  hit  that  canyon  like  a ton 
of  bricks.  They  ironed  out  like  a 
pancake.” 

“Listen,”  said  Vickers.  “Send 
your  robot  down  on  a line.  See 
what  he  can  do.” 

“O.  K.,”  agreed  Cal,  “but  I sure 
ain’t  fostering  no  hopes.” 

Vickers  switched  the  radio  off  and 
gave  his  attention  to  driving. 

Suddenly  he  felt  lonely — lonely 
and  hopeless.  Fred  would  have  been 
a good  man  to  have  along  in  a time 
like  this,  but  Fred  was  needed  back 
at  the  Hive,  and  anyway,  the  trac- 
tors were  built  for  only  one  man. 
Once  again  the  old  rule  that  any- 
thing, to  survive  on  Jupiter,  must 
shun  size  and  be  shaped  like  a tur- 
tle. 

He  skirted  a mighty  cliff,  a white, 
chalky  cliff,  composed  of  stuff  that 
on  Earth  would  have  been  water,  but 
on  Jupiter,  because  of  the  terrible 
cold,  the  crushing  atmosphere,  was 
a solid  instead.  A blue  waterfall  of 
liquid  ammonia  spewed  over  the  cliff, 
rushing  down  the  mountainside  in  a 
swirling  torrent.  The  waterfall  was 
shrouded  in  a steamy  vapor. 

The  rain  still  slashed  down.  From 
far  above  came  the  steady  howling 
of  the  boisterous  wind  in  the  passes. 

Vickers  flipped  on  the  radio,  'tried 
to  contact  Cal,  but  there  was  no  an- 
swer. Perhaps  just  another  vagary 
of  this  giant  planet.  Radios  at  any 
time  were  poor. 

Or  it  might  be  Cal  had  simply 
passed  out. 

Vickers  spat  in  disgust.  If  only 
there  were  a real  man  over  there  at 
that  canyon  where  the  Jovian  Ark 
lay  shattered!  A man  like  Fred  or 
Eric,  or  any  of  a dozen  others.  But 


CLERICAL  ERROR 


101 


instead  the  man  out  there  was  Old 
Cal  Osborn! 

The  tractor  nosed  its  way  around 
the  cliff,  climbed  the  mountain 
shoulder,  slipping  and  skidding  on 
the  slippery  surfaces.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  greater  gravity,  that 
shoulder  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble to  negotiate,  but  the  tractor 
made  it,  angled  downward  to  head 
up  a second  spur. 

The  radio  suddenly  gurgled  to  life, 
and  Cal’s  faint  voice,  distorted  and 
ghostlike,  whispered  at  Vickers. 

“Listen,  lad,  my  robot  can’t  do 
anything.  He  needs  someone  down 
there  to  work  with  him.  He’s  paw- 
ing around  in  the  wreckage,  but  he 
don’t  know  what  he’s  looking  for.” 

“Can’t  you  direct  him?”  snapped 
Vickers.  “What’s  the  matter?” 

“The  canyon’s  deep,”  said  the 
ghostly  voice.  “Even  with  my  spot 
turned  on  full  power  I can  just  make 
out  the  wreckage.  I can’t  make  out 
much.  If  I could  just  see  what  that 
doggoned  robot  was  doing  I might 
be  able  to  help  him  get  somewhere.” 

Vickers  considered.  Old  Cal  was 
right.  It  would  be  hard  to  see  the 
bottom  of  a deep  canyon.  The  thick 
atmosphere  played  tricks  with  vi- 
sion, distorted  it,  broke  up  and  dissi- 
pated light. 

“Look,  Cal,”  he  said.  “We  have 
to  get  down  some  way.  One  of  us 
has  to  be  down  there  to  direct  that 
robot.” 

An  alcoholic  hiccup,  a ghostly  hic- 
cup, blurted  out  of  the  radio.  Then 
Old  Cal’s  voice:  “0.  K„  lad.  I’ll 
find  a way.” 

The  radio  went  dead.  Frantically 
Vickers  tried  to  raise  the  old  man, 
but  only  silence  met  his  efforts. 

Vickers  bent  to  his  chart,  figured 
swiftly.  Only  a few  miles  now.  Just 
a few  minutes  more  to  get  there.  He 
barreled  the  tractor  savagely  up  over 
the  spur,  turned  and  flung  it  at  an 


incline  on  which  the  treads  spun 
crazily.  But  the  machine,  as  if 
driven  by  the  fierce  will  of  the  man 
at  its  wheel,  moved  ahead,  protest- 
ing, groaning  in  every  beam  and 
plate.  It  reached  the  crest  of  the 
inclined,  charged,  weaving  and  bob- 
bing, over  upended  terrain. 

The  radio  blatted  hoarsely. 

“I  found  a way,”  said  Old  Cal’s 
voice.  “Not  much  of  a way,  but 
maybe  I can  make  it.  A sort  of  trail 
leading  down  into  the  canyon.  Looks 
like  some  bad  turns  and  pretty  nar- 
row— ” 

“Wait,”  yelled  Vickers.  “Wait  for 
me.  You’re  drunk,  you  fool.  You’ll 
never  make  it.  You’ll  crash.” 

“Who  says  I’m  drunk?”  demanded 
Cal.  “I’m  just  stimulated.  I’ll  do 
it  better’n  you  could,  sonny.  I got 
— blurp— experience.” 

“Listen  to  me.  Cal,”  snapped 
Vickers.  “This  is  an  order.  You 
wait  for  me.  I’m  going  down  that 
trail.  I have  a chance  to  make  it. 
You  haven’t.” 

“Your  orders,  mister,  don’t  mean 
a tarnal  damn  to  me,”  roared  Cal. 
“Keep  your  radio  open  and  keep 
a-coming.  I’m  going  down  into  that 
canyon.” 

Vickers  shouted  at  him,  but  there 
was  no  reply. 

The  ornery  old  fool!  Vickers  knew 
to  a fraction  how  drunk  he  was.  If 
he’d  been  walking,  Cal’s  tracks 
would  have  been  a sine  wave.  He’d 
never  reach  the  bottom  of  that  can- 
yon alive. 

Cal  had  reported  before  there  was 
no  way  into  the  canyon.  And  now 
suddenly  he  had  found  a way.  How 
did  that  happen?  Was  he  sure  it 
was  a trail— not  just  a ledge  that 
ran  down  part  way  and  then  snapped 
off— 

He  shrieked  at  the  radio  again, 
but  only  silence  greeted  him.  He 
heard  the  hiss  of  rain  against  the 


102 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


tractor’s  hide,  the  grating  of  the 
skidding  treads,  the  screaming  of  the 
wind  in  the  passes  just  above,  but 
that  was  all. 

In  the  fan  of  light  ahead,  the  four 
robots  looked  like  weird  goblins, 
their  quartz-covered  bodies  shining, 
the  deep-blue  rain  sluicing  over 
them.  A monstrous  bolt  of  light- 
ning split  the  sky  and  the  surround- 
ing landscape,  and  their  bodies  were 
painted  a bloody  red.  Thunder  bel- 
lowed with  mountain-shaking  vio- 
lence. 

Then  suddenly  the  tractor  was 
dipping  down  into  a region  of  up- 
flung  topographic  nightmare.  Fan- 
tastic formations  loomed  in  the  gray 
dusk  of  the  rain. 

Vickers  slowed  his  speed,  wormed 
his  way  downward  cautiously.  He 
was  nearing  the  canyon’s  rim,  and  he 
couldn’t  take  a chance  of  overrun- 
ning it,  flinging  the  tractor  into  the 
depths  below. 

Ahead  of  him  the  robots  wheeled 
to  right  and  left  and  waited.  They 
had  reached  the  rim. 

Vickers  stopped  the  tractor,  took 
readings,  found  he  had  struck  the 
canyon  too  high  up  the  mountain- 
side. Cautiously  he  edged  his  way 
along  its  edge. 

The  radio  howled  at  him,  loud  and 
clear  now:  “I’m  down,  Vickers. 

Who  said  I was  drunk?  And  what 
if  I am,  but  I ain’t.  The  robot  is 
going  after  the  mercotite.” 

“Are  you  all  right  yourself,  Cal?” 
Vickers  yelled. 

“Sure,  kid.  But  hurry.  Throw  a 
line  over  the  side  and  I’ll  send  it  up.” 

The  tractor  edged  along,  its  beam 
flinging  a spear  of  blinding  light  into 
the  yawning  depths. 

That  beam  picked  out  another 
light  far  below,  a crumpled  mass  of 
wreckage,  a tiny  form  that  scurried 
and  ripped  and  tore  at  the  wreckage. 


Swiftly  Vickers  squared  his  trac- 
tor around.  One  of  the  robots 
grasped  the  end  of  the  heavy  cable 
wrapped  around  the  drum  in  front 
of  the  tractor.  Inside  the  tractor, 
Vickers  depressed  a stud  that  set  the 
drum  in  motion. 

The  robot  scurried  forward, 
dropped  over  the  edge  of  the  rim, 
hanging  to  the  cable.  Another  ro- 
bot lowered  itself  over  the  edge, 
grasped  the  cable,  rode  down  above 
the  first. 

“Got  the  first  box  out,”  reported 
Old  Cal’s  voice.  “Those  robots  just 
got  down  here.  They’ll  help  a lot.” 

Minutes  passed,  breathless  min- 
utes, that  seemed  to  drag  like  eter- 
nity. 

Then  Old  Cal’s  voice  again. 
“Heave  away,  lad.  First  three 
boxes.” 

Vickers  started  the  drum,  used  re- 
verse power  as  an  anchorage  for  the 
straining  tractor.  Swiftly  the  cable 
rolled  in,  and  over  the  rim  came 
three  lashed  metal  boxes,  ridden  by 
a robot. 

Down  again  and  up  again  with 
three  more  boxes.  And  then  three 
more.  And  then  the  final  three. 
Twelve  boxes  of  mercotite ! Twelve 
boxes  of  life  for  the  Hive  and  the 
men  who  lived  within  it!  Twelve 
boxes  of  hope  for  the  Solar  System! 

Old  Cal’s  voice  came  again, 
fainter,  as  if  from  a long  distance 
away. 

“O.  K.,  kid.  Load  up  that  stuff 
and  hit  for  home.  I’ll  be  coming  up 
in  a little  while,  but  don’t  wait  for 
me.” 

Apprehension  swept  over  Vickers. 

“Look,  Cal,  are  you  sure  you’re  all 
right?” 

“Sure,  everything’s  fine,  kid.”  A 
long  pause  and  then:  “Listen,  lad, 
something  I want  to  tell  you — some- 
thing important.  Still  got  a bottle 
of  good  Scotch  hid  out  at  the  Hive.” 


CLERICAL  ERROR 


103 


There  was  a longer  pause,  and 
when  the  voice  came  it  was  scarcely 
more  than  a whisper. 

“Up  in  the  room  next  to  the  radio 
shack.  No  one  goes  there.  Good 
place  to  hide  it!” 

“Cal!”  shouted  Vickers.  “Cal,  I 
can  hardly  hear  you.  What’s  the 
matter,  old  man?  What’s  the  trou- 
ble?” 

The  whisper,  even  fainter,  was 
jerky,  tremulous:  “Maybe  you’ll 

want  to  drink  a toast  or  something.” 

“Cal!”  Vickers  yelled.  “Cal,  an- 
swer me!” 

But  there  was  no  answer.  Just 
the  wind  screeching  in  the  passes, 
the  growl  of  thunder  in  the  distant 
ranges,  the  hammer  of  the  rain 
against  the  tractor’s  sides. 

Savagely,  fearfully,  Vickers 
leaped  at  the  controls,  swung  the 
machine  around,  hugging  the  rim, 
sweeping  the  walls  with  his  beam. 

Then  he  saw  what  he  was  looking 
for.  A broad  ledge,  angling  sharply 
downward,  starting  at  the  lip  of  the 
canyon  and  reaching  far  into  the 
depths.  But  a ledge  that  cut  off 
before  reaching  the  bottom,  a ledge 
that  opened  off  on  empty  space. 
And  directly  below  that  blind,  blank 
end  lay  the  pile  of  wreckage  that 
had  been  the  Jovian  Ark. 

Down  there,  too,  was  another  pile 
of  wreckage — a pile  of  wreckage  in 
which  a man  had  lived'long  enough 
to  accomplish  a certain  purpose.  A 
man  who  had  taken  a chance.  A 
chance  his  tractor  would  hold  to- 
gether for  a few  minutes  after  that 
plunge  into  the  canyon.  A chance 
that  he  himself  would  not  be  killed 
outright. 

Vickers  cursed  softly  to  himself. 
He  knew  to  a fraction  how  drunk 
Old  Cal  had  been.  He  was  just 
drunk  enough  to  wabble  like  a cy- 
clone when  he  walked,  and,  being  of 


the  breed  that  started  exploring 
planets  when  planetary  exploration 
started,  he’d  been  driving  explorer 
tractors  the  major  portion  of  his 
lifetime,  drunk  and  sober.  He  might 
wabble  when  he  walked,  but  he’d 
still  drive  straighter  than  most  sober 
men. 

And  he  was  just  drunk  enough  to 
be  highly  incensed  at  the  suggestion 
he  was  drunk,  and  absolutely  deter- 
mined to  prove  he  wasn’t  drunk. 
And,  of  course,  to  have  lost  his  sense 
of  judgment.  Only  a nitwit  would-be 
hero  or  a thorough  and  consistent 
souse  like  Cal  would  have  thought 
for  an  instant  that  a tractor  driven 
off  that  ledge,  under  Jupiter’s 
gravity,  would  hold  together  long 
enough.  The  blasted  machine 
should,  by  rights,  have  opened  out 
like  a dropped  melon.  Instead,  the 
quartz  protective  layer  had  simply 
shattered  off,  leaving  the  metal  to 
go  a little  later  as  the  hydrogen  of 
the  atmosphere  turned  it  into  su- 
gary-brittle iron  hydride. 

“Cal,  you  damned,  drunken  fool 
to  do—” 

The  wind  swooped  down  into  the 
canyon,  across  its  lip,  and  heaved  a 
few  hundred  tons  of  ammonia  rain 
on  the  wreckage  with  a howl  of  rage. 
The  wreckage  of  the  Jovian  Ark 
didn’t  change;  that  was  already  com- 
pletely flattened.  The  shape  of  the 
tractor  over  there,  however,  sud- 
denly slumped  a bit  'more,  and  ab- 
ruptly turned  a very  deep  and 
lovely  blue  in  the  glare  of  Vickers’ 
lights.  The  ammonia  had  gotten 
into  the  copper  wiring  and  was 
washing  it  out. 

Vickers  started  back  for  the  Hive. 
“We’ll  drink  a toast,”  he  growled, 
“but  it  will  not  be  a toast  to  the 
mercotite.  It’ll  be  a toast  to  a ship- 
ping clerk,  a little  grounded  shipping 
clerk  back  on  Earth — and  his  speedy 
and  very  complete  damnation.” 


104 


SHHHHH — DOfl’T  IHtflTlOO  II! 

By  Arthur  UlcCann 

Being  an  article  on  atomic  power  possibilities  as 
they  now  appear — and  on  the  sucker-bait  pos- 
sibilities certainly  present!  Moral:  don’t  buy 
Uranium-bricks — don't  sell  coal  and  oil  short!  * 


In  practically  every  Sunday  news- 
paper in  the  country,  a couple  of 
months  back,  there  was  an  article  on 
atomic  power.  In  about  as  many 
Monday  morning  papers  there  was  a 
follow-up  article  that  did  everything 
but  retract  the  glowing  accounts  of 
the  nearness  and  simplicity  of  atomic 
power  in  Sunday’s  papers. 

There  was,  of  course,  a reason — 
and  it  was  not  because  there  had 
been  serious  misstatements  of  fact 
in  the  earlier,  and  more  enthusiastic, 
article.  It  wasn’t  physics  that 
was  wrong;  it  was  psychology  and 
human  nature.  That  first  article 
had  been  something  of  a nation-wide, 
wide-open  invitation  to  all  sellers  of 
blue-sky  real  estate,  phony  stock 
schemes,  and  gold-brick  manufac- 
turers to  step  in  and  clean  up.  It 
sounded  as  though  someone  next 
door  could,  tomorrow,  produce  an 
atomic  power  engine  worth  millions 
to  the  early  birds  that  jumped  on 
the  band  wagon  before  it  turned 
Prosperity  Corner.  The  professional 
sucker — or  perhaps  one  should  say 
the  professional  sucker-hunter’s  fa- 
vorite— is  usually  unalterably  con- 
vinced that  all  really  great  inven- 
tions are  made  by  a guy  in  a gar- 
ret, but  are  apt  to  get  stolen  for 
lack  of  financial  backing. 

Hence  all,  that’s  needed  is  to  find 
him  before  the  invention’s  stolen, 
and  finance  him  to  make  millions. 


Many  men  make  a life  work  of  fur- 
thering this  belief  and  collecting  on 
it.  Nobody,  generally  speaking,  col- 
lects on  “inventions”  so  financed. 

That  honestly  enthusiastic  article 
on  atomic  power  was  a too-perfect 
set-up  for  the  professional  fool-and- 
his-money  separaters.  In  the  inter- 
ests of  public-  welfare,  therefore,  a 
second  article,  retracting  the  em- 
phasis and  enthusiasm,  but  none  of 
the  facts,  which  had  been  correct  in 
the  first  place,  was  equally  widely 
published. 

For  our  own  interest,  for  those 
who  have  been  mildly  vaccinated 
against  the  atomic-power  fever  by 
doses  of  science  fiction,  let’s  try  to 
form  a balanced  analysis — as  seen 
from  the  viewpoint  of  here  and  now. 

Basically,  the  recent  Columbia 
University  experiment,  which  gave 
rise  to  the  atomic  power  articles, 
consisted  of  a test  of  the  reactions  of 
a sample  of  pure  Uranium-235  to 
neutron  bonibardment.  It  was  found 
to  react  as  predicted.  It  blew  up 
atom  by  atom  under  slow-neutron 
bombardment.  The  reaction  of 
most  physicists  I’ve  seen  was  a mild, 
“Hm-m-m,  that  checks.”  They 
were,  seemingly,  greatly  surprised 
only  at  the  fact  that  the  newspaper 
seemed  to  be  surprised;  they’d  been 
expecting  that  experiment,  to  be  per- 
formed for  some  months.  It  was 
an  obvious  point  to  check  their 


See  Arthur  McCann’s  letter  in  Science  Discussions. 


SHHHHH— DON’T  MENTION  IT! 


105 


theoretical  work,  a job  that  was 
rather  difficult,  and  badly  needed  do- 
ing, but  an  experiment  whose  an- 
swer was  known  beforehand. 

The  physicists  would  have  been 
surprised — practically  shocked  out 
of  their  chairs — if  it  hadn’t  done 
as  it  did. 

However,  it  reacted  properly. 
That  checked  their  theory  that 
atoms  of  Uranium  isotope  of  atomic 
weight  235  were  explosive  when 
bombarded  with  slow  neutrons,  but 
were  not  affected  by  fast  neutrons, 
and  that  more  high-speed  neutrons 
were  produced  than  low-speed  neu- 
trons were  used  in  the  desired  re- 
action. 

This  makes  it  seem  probable  that 
a reasonably  large  mass  of  pure 
U-235,  once  started  with  a few  neu- 
trons, would  continue  to  disintegrate 
as  long  as  the  high-velocity  neutrons 
produced  were  slowed  down  and  re- 


turned to  it,  as  by  surrounding  the 
uranium  with  a water  bath,  where 
the  hydrogen  atoms  would  slow 
down  the  escaping  neutrons  and  re- 
turn them.  Ever-present  cosmic 
rays  normally  produce  a few  free 
neutrons  everywhere,  at  all  times. 
Thus  merely  surrounding  a fair- 
sized chunk  of  U-235  with  plain 
water  is  the  answer  to  the  mighty 
secret — atomic  power. 

In  one  way,  it  sounds  rather  fool- 
ish. Given  U-235,  the  secret  of 
starting  atomic  fire  is  no  end  sim- 
pler than  the  secret  of  making  or- 
dinary fire.  It  took  men  thousands 
of  years  to  find  a decent  way  of  get- 
ting a fire  started.  With  the  vastly 
more  potent  atomic  fire,  all  you  need 
do  is  drop  a hunk  of  rock — oxide  of 
U-235  would  do  as  well  as  the  pure 
metal — in  a puddle  of  water.  In- 
stantly— and  the  word  applies  lit- 
erally— the  water  in  the  neighbor- 


Suggested  location  for  an  atomic  power  plant.  Nature — in  the  form  of 
half  a mile  of  solid  rock — supplies  the  shielding  to  stop  the  deadly  gamma 
radiation  that  accompanies  atomic  burning  as  light  accompanies  normal  fire. 


106 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


hood  bursts  into  steam,  the  rock 
becomes  incandescent,  the  water  rap- 
idly boils  away — and  the  rock  be- 
comes quiescent  again.  When  the 
water  is  all  gone,  there  is  no  longer 
anything  to  slow  down  the  fast  neu- 
trons released,  they  escape  without 
reacting  with  more  U-235,  and  the 
action  naturally  stops  itself. 

The  catch  in  this  is  evident;  no- 
body’s given  or,  at  present,  can  get, 
any  hunks  of  U-235  or  its  oxide.  “To 
make  rabbit  stew:  Fust  citch  yer 
rabbit.” 

Tub  rabbit  hunters — for  this  par- 
ticular variety  of  rabbit  at  least — 
have  yet  to  perfect  a decent  trap. 
Uranium  is  not  rare — see  the 
material  on  that  point  further 
along.  In  uranium  as  normally 
found,  there  is  a fraction  of  one  per 
cent  of  the  desired  U-235;  the  main 
portion  is  practically  all  U-238. 
There  are,  however,  various  other 
isotopes  present,  isotopes  which 
are,  for  atomic  power  purposes, 
of  no  interest,  varying  in  weight 
from  234  to  240.  They  occur 
in  even  smaller  concentrations 
than  U-235,  which  gives  us  oppor- 
tunity to  heave  a slight  sigh  of  re- 
lief; we  don’t  have  to  dig  them  out. 

Apparently,  U-235  occurs  in  a pro- 
portion of  somewhat  more  than  one 
part  of  U-235  to  200  or  so  parts  of 
unusable  isotopes.  In  every  ton  of 
uranium,  then,  there  are  a bit  more 
than  ten  pounds  of  U-235.  They’re 
there,  but  getting  them  out  is  the 
devil’s  own  job.  So  far,  we’re  badly 
stymied;  we  can  do  it  on  a theo- 
retical, laboratory-experiment  scale, 
but  as  an  engineering  process,  some- 
thing commercially  practicable,  we 
can’t.  Doing  that  separation  job  is 
the  present  key — not  the  key  to 
atomic  power,  because  we  have  that, 
but  .the  key  to  commercial  atomic 
power. 


Private  opinion,  purely  personal: 
They’ll  do  it  within  three  years.  If 
you  want  something  safe  to  bet  on, 
however,  better  stick  to  horse  races. 

Nevertheless,  there  are  reasons  for 
making  such  a guess.  In  1930,  some 
chemists  tried  separating  the  two 
isotopes  of  chlorine — Cl-35  and 
Cl-37 — by  advanced,  highly  intri- 
cate, extremely  delicate  distillation 
methods.  Theoretically  there  should 
be  a slight  difference  in  the  physical 
properties  of  the  two  isotopes,  and 
in  the  compounds  of  the  two  iso- 
topes. Working  with  something  like 
HC1 — where  they  didn’t  have  to 
worry  about  molecules  containing 
both  isotopes,  and  having  hybrid 
properties,  as  they  would  have  with 
chlorine  gas  itself,  which  has  two 
atoms  to  the  molecule — -they  per- 
formed a tedious  and  careful  experi- 
ment. The  result  confirmed  the  be- 
liefs of  other  workers  in  the  field; 
there  was  no  concentration  of  one 
isotope  over  the  other,  no  change  or 
separation  effected. 

In  1940,  by  an  extremely  simple 
apparatus  consisting  primarily  of  a 
heated  wire  running  down  the  mid- 
dle of  a long  tube,  a thing  rather  re- 
sembling an  extremely  crude  distilla- 
tion apparatus,  concentrations  of 
Cl-35  or  Cl-37  of  almost  any  de- 
sired purity  can  be  prepared  fairly 
quickly.  As  usual,  the  apparatus  is 
simple  as  a child’s  game.  The  theory 
behind  it  isn’t — also  as  usual. 

This  same  type  of  apparatus  will 
work  to  concentrate  U-235 — but  it 
isn’t  very  effective  there,  because  in 
this  case  you’ve  got  a difference  of 
three  points— 238  minus  235 — in  238 
instead  of  two  points  in  37. 

The  sample  of  pure  U-235  that 
was  used  in  the  Columbia  tests  was 
prepared  by  the  mass-spectrograph 
technique.  Uranium  was  ionized, 
the  ions  driven — electrically — across 
a magnetic  field . The  magnetic  force 


SHHHHH— DON’T  MENTION  IT! 


107 


applied  wasrthe  same  for  both  types 
of  ions;  their  masses  were  different, 
so  a noticeable  difference  in  their 
course  across  the  magnetic  field  re- 
sulted. The  U-235  could  be  collected 
separately.  The  quantity,  however, 
was  something  that  not  even  a mi- 
crochemist would  have  called  a 
“sample.”  Somebody  figured  that  a 
usable  quantity  could  be  collected  in 
about  three  hundred  years  of  steady 
operation,  at  a cost  approximating 
the  national  debt. 

Be  it  noted:  The  methods  so  far 
used  are  methods  developed  by 
physicists,  for-  physicists.  They  are 
completely  and  unqualifiedly  suc- 
cessful methods  of  doing  what  the 
physicist  wanted  to  do — test  iso- 
topes. Only  in  the  last  few  years 
has  he  had  any  desire  to  collect 
quantities  of  separate  isotopes — and 
that  want  has,  up  to  the  present 
U-235  point,  been  slightly  half- 
hearted. 

Trouble  is,  there’s  something  of  a 
contest  on.  It’s  between  the  bio- 
chemists and  medical  people  on  one 
side,  and  the  nuclear  physicists  on 
the  other.  The  biochemists  are 
using  isotopes,  mostly  radioactive 
ones,  in  trying  to  find  out  what  an 
organism  does  with  a given  sub- 
stance, element  or  compound,  after 
it  gets  it.  For  this  work,  they  want 
quantities  of  isotopes  whose  prop- 
erties are  well  and  accurately  known. 
(Naturally,  they  don’t  want  unex- 
pected and  unsuspected  side  reac- 
tions messing  up  their  results.)  The 
physicists  are,  naturally,  their  source 
of  supply — the  physicists  and  their 
cyclotrons  and  isotope-separating 
methods. 

The  physicists  don’t  love  them. 
They  are  always  coming  ardund  de- 
manding quantities  of  stuff  of  a most 
uninteresting  nature — its  properties 
are  already  reasonably  well  worked 
out — and  tying  up  the  cyclotron 


which  is  needed  for  really  important, 
new-fields  work  while  their  blasted 
junk  gets  its  bombardment.  And 
every  time  some  physicist  works  out 
a new  transmutation,  a new  corps  of 
bug  chasers  comes  howling  around 
for  a new  supply.  The  old  gang 
never  drops  out — only  new  ones, 
with  additional  demands  on  the  cy- 
clotron, show  up.  There  are  under- 
the-breath  remarks  about  “ — turn- 
ing this  into  a damned  factory — ” 
Each  has  understandable  human  re- 
action to  the  problem. 

But,  until  now,  massive  separation 
of  pure,  heavy-element  isotopes  has 
not  been  a major  point  in  the  physi- 
cists’ minds.  Wherefore,  considering 
the  fact  that  science  practically  in- 
variably solves  a given,  set  problem, 
known  to  be  capable  of  solution,  and 
already  half-solved,  in  short  order, 
I’m  betting  it  gets  answered  quickly. 

Basically,  the  question  of  atomic 
power  is  no  longer  a problem  of 
physics;  it’s  an  engineering  problem. 
The  answer  will  quite  likely,  in  con- 
sequence, come  from  engineering 
laboratories.  Both  General  Electric 
and  Westinghouse  Electric  com- 
panies, for  instance,  are  working  on 
different  phases  of  nuclear  research. 

(G.  E.,  incidentally,  is  in  the  cyclo- 
tron-building business;  they  con- 
structed the  coils  for  M.  I.  T.’s  cy- 
clotron— one  of  the  first  cyclotrons 
to  be  built  to  be  a cyclotron.  Most 
of  the  earlier  ones  were  revamped 
magnets  originally  intended  for  the 
old  quenched-arc  type  radio  trans- 
mitters. Westinghouse  has  built 
and  is  working  with  a pressure-type 
Van  de  Graff  high-potential  genera- 
tor for  nuclear  research.) 

Further,  it’s  an  engineering  prob- 
lem indeed.  Let’s  take  a step  ahead; 
assume  they  have  solved  the  prob- 
lem of  U-235  separation,  and  see 
what  remains  to  be  done.  It’s  con- 


108 


-At  a mongoose 
whips  a cobra — 
or  a cowboy 
throws  a steei 

so  does  The  Shadow,  his  eldritch  laugh  mock- 
ing in  their  ears,  attack  the  criminal  hordes  that 
infest  the  country  and  thwart  their  evil  ends. 

His  thrilling  story  is  told  in  pictures  in  full  color 
-—all  new— -all  original— each  issue  complete 
in  itself. 


Nine  other  features 
in  the  nation's  thriller 


ceivable  that  there  are  reactions  ab- 
sorbing neutrons  unproductively — 
for  instance  a U-235  atom  might  be 
able  to  absorb  a high-speed  neutron 
after  all,  thus  forming  a hitherto  un- 
known uranium  isotope  U-236  that 
remains  stable  and  doesn’t  explode. 
If  this  should  take  place,  the  reac- 
tion wouldn’t  be  self-sustaining.  It’s 
still  possible  the  thing  won’t  work; 
the  probability  is  very  strong  it  will, 
however. 

Say  it  does.  Then  our  piece  of 
U-235  plunged  into  water  is  started 
off  by  stray  cosmic  rays,  begins  the 
bombardment  that  rapidly — nuclear 
reactions  take  hundred  millionths  or 
billionths  of  a second! — heats  the 
water.  Hot  water  molecules  move 
fast — and  neutrons  colliding  with 
fast  water  molecules  won’t  be 
slowed  enough  to  react  with  the 
U-235,  which  promptly  slows  the  re- 
action to  a manageable  intensity. 

Then  all  we  need  at  first  glance, 
seems  to  be  a boiler  tube  with  a 
lump  of  U-235  over  which  water  is 
passed,  being  instantly  converted  to 
steam.  More  water  simply  means 
more  steam,  without  apparent  limit 
to  rate  of  volatilization.  U-235  is  not 
particularly  radioactive;  it  doesn’t 
have  a “half-life”  as  does  radium 
with  its  1728  years,  or  radioactive 
carbon  with  its  twelve  minutes.  This 
disintegration  of  U-235  is  not  lim- 
ited in  rate  by  any  known  inherent 
rate-limiting  factor;  it’s  due  to  an 
external  bombardment,  not  to  an  in- 
ternal rearrangement  of  its  constitu- 
ent protons  and  neutrons  as  in  the 
case  of  true  radioactives. 

The  unlimited  rate  of  disintegra- 
tion is  probably  correct.  It  would 
convert  whatever  amount  of  water 
was  brought  near  it  to  steam  as  rap- 
idly as  the  water  were  forced  in.  The 
heating  would  be  brought  about  by 
three  factors;  the  disintegration  of 
the  uranium  would  yield  high-speed 
neutrons,  and  large  chunks  of  the 
original  uranium  atom,  also  moving 


SHHHHH— DON’T  MENTION  IT! 


109 


fast,  plus  quantities  of  hard  radia- 
tion, of  the  general  nature  of  X rays 
and  gamma  rays. 

Naturally,  since  heat  in  matter  is 
motion  of  its  molecules,  these  fast- 
moving  particles,  colliding  with 
water  molecules,  are  slowed  while 
speeding  and  heating  the  water.  In- 
cidentally; the  reason  why  water  will 
act  to  slow  down  neutrons  so  that 
they  will  react  with  the  U-235,  while 
the  U-235  atoms  themselves  won’t 
effectively  slow  them  down  enough, 
is  due  to  mass  and  momentum  fac- 
tors. It  works  about  as  things  in  the 
large-scale  universe  do.  If  a fast- 
moving'  golf  ball  strikes  a boulder,  it 
bounces  off  in  a new  direction,  but 
with  practically  all  the  speed  it  had 
originally,  while  the  boulder  remains 
unmoved.  If  the  ball  hits  a pebble 
of  about  its  own  weight,  the  pebble 
goes  flying  off  with  about  half  the 
speed  the  ball  originally  had,  while 
the  ball  is  appropriately  slowed  due 
to  loss  of  energy  and  momentum  to 
the  pebble. 

Similarly,  when  a neutron  collides 
with  an  enormously  massive  U-235 
nucleus,  if  it’s  moving  rapidly,  it 
bounces  without  appreciably  dis- 
turbing the  majestic  movement  of 
the  235-times  heavier  uranium 
nucleus.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
strikes  a hydrogen  nucleus,  the  hy- 
drogen has  about  the  same  mass  the 
neutron  has,  and  the  momentum  and 
energy  are  shared  between  the  two 
particles.  After  a few  collisions  of 
this  order,  the  neutron  has  been 
slowed  to  the  normal  velocity  of  hy- 
drogen— or  water  molecules.  At 
room  temperatures,  or  slightly  above 
— in  this  case  slightly  means  up  to  a 
bright-red  heat — these  velocities  are 
low  enough  to  permit  the  neutron  to 
react  with  U-235.  The  water  mole- 
cules have  acquired  the  energy  the 
neutron  started  with. 

The  fate  of  the  massive  atom 


chunks  driven  out  from  the  riven 
uranium  is  more  or  less  parallel. 
They  have  a mass  of  about  one  hun- 
dred times  that  of  hydrogen,  and  are 
quickly  brought  to  “rest”  by  colli- 
sions, whereupon  they  take  up  life 
as  individual  atoms  of  the  particular 
element  they  now  represent — 
barium,  tellurium,  whatever  it  may 
be. 

Here,  however,  beginneth  the  sad 
tale.  Very  presently,  the  atom 
chunks  that  have  settled  down  so 
peaceably  in  the  water  surrounding 
the  parent  U-235,  blast  loose  with 
secondary  explosions.  They  start 
throwing  off  neutrons  in  turn,  plus 
electrons,  positrons,  protons,  gamma 
rays,  or  whatever  seems  to  the  par- 
ticular fragment  the  least  desirable 
portion  of  its  anatomy.  They’re  po- 
tent radioactive  isotopes  on  their 
own  account. 

We  will  have  to  do  some  adding 
to  the  lump-and-tube  atomic  engine. 
First,  we’ll  have  to  do  something 
about  the  quantities  of  gamma-radi- 
ation thrown  off  by  the  U-235  in  its 
original  fission.  Water  isn’t  a good 
absorber,  so  we  can  add  a few  lay- 
ers of,  say,  the  new  copper-tungsten 
alloy  they’re  beginning  to  use  to 
shield  out  the  gamma  radiation  from 
radium.  Gamma-stopping  power  in- 
creases with  atomic  weight  and  with 
density.  Uranium,  if  it  weren’t  that 
the  darned  stuff  generates  gamma 
rays  of  its  own,  would  be  the  best 
of  radiation-stoppers;  density  above 
nineteen — nearly  twice  that  of  lead 
— and  the  highest  known  atomic 
weight. 

Copper-tungsten  is,  however,  ex- 
pensive, and  we’re  going  to  need 
more  than  sample  amounts  to  stop 
the  radiation  from  that  atomic  re- 
action on  a commercial  scale.  Lead 
it  will  probably  have  to  be.  One 
centimeter  thickness  of  lead  absorbs 


no 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


I 


forty  per  cent  of  the  incident  gamma 
radiation,  and  passes  the  other  sixty 
per  cent.  Nothing  in  the  Universe 
is  opaque  to  gamma  rays;  all  sub- 
stances are  simply  more  or  less 
murky.  Light  penetrates  metals  only 
a few  atomic  diameters;  there  is  no 
substance  known  which  has  this 
opacity  to  gamma  rays.  It  is  be- 
lieved that  none  does  or  can  exist. 
Light  is  a large-scale  thing  that  can- 
not filter  through  the  mostly  empty 
space  of  atoms;  gamma  rays  are  so 
fine  a structure  that  atoms  are 
mostly  empty  to  it.  Only  if  neu- 
trons could  somehow  be  bound  to- 
gether in  a solid  could  gamma  be 
stopped  dead.  But  nothing  could 
then  hold  the  bound  neutrons  in 
place! 

It  then  appears  that  atomic  en- 
gines will  require  shielding, 'foot  after 
massive  foot  of  solid  lead.  Or,  proba- 
bly, shell  after  massive  shell  of  lead, 
with  cooling  water  forced  through  it 
to  absorb  the  heat  generated  in  stop- 
ping that  deadly  and  violent  flood  of 
hard,  radiation,  the  like  of  which 
nothing  save  a sun  has  ever  been 
forced  to  endure. 

And  not  merely  the  reaction  cham- 
ber must  be  protected;  the  entire 
system,  from  uranium  burner 
through  water  tanks,  steam  lines, 
turbines,  feed-water  pumps  and  back 
to  reaction  chamber  must  be  buried 
and  blocked  in  immense  masses  of 
dense  metal.  For  every  particle  of 
water  that  has  once  passed  that  re- 
action chamber  will  emerge  super- 
charged with  radioactive  stuff.  Some 
will  be  solid  and  non-volatile,  some 
will  be  permanently  gaseous,  some 
will  be  volatile  material.  Every  part 
ef  the  line  must  be  shielded,  though 
not  necessarily  with  the  same  vast 
layers  of  dense  metal. 

The  scale  of  the  thing  is  what 
must  be  considered.  Radium  is  ade- 
quately shielded  behind  a few  inches 


of  lead.  It  produces  a few  calories  of 
energy  an  hour,  its  radiation  is  hor- 
ribly penetrant,  but  there  is  little  of 
it,  so  that  a few  successive  forty-per- 
cent reductions  quickly  reduce  it  to 
a negligible  quantity.  But  where 
thousands  of  horsepower,  perhaps 
millions,  are  being  released  in  the 
form  of  that  same  deadly  and  super- 
penetrant radiation,  hundreds  of 
forty-percent  reductions  are  neces- 
sary if  human  life  is  to  survive  any- 
where in  the  near  vicinity. 

There  are  two  possibilities;  locate 
the  power  plant  in  the  depths  of  a 
mountain,  tunneling  in  through  a 
half  dozen  miles  of  solid  rock — 
preferably  dense  ore  rock — and 
operating  the  plant  by  remote  con- 
trol. Enough  rock  will  serve  as  ef- 
fectively, and  much  more  cheaply 
than  lead. 

The  other  is  to  place  the  plant  in 
some  place  beyond  the  horizon  from 
any  habited  point — a south  seas 
island,  perhaps.  Only  there,  no  one 
would  have  any  use  for  it. 

We  can,  however,  recognize  it  sim- 
ply as  another  engineering  problem. 
No  known  matter  will  stop  gamma 
very  well;  there  may  be  unguessed 
ways  that  can  be  attained  reason- 
ably quickly.  But  don’t  sell  oil 
stocks  yet;  uranium  fuel  may  dis- 
place coal  somewhat,  but  lead- 
shielded  uranium  plants  won’t  be 
used  in  automobiles  or  airplanes  very 
quickly. 

That  constitutes  something  of  a 
review  of  what  is  in  the  way  of 
atomic  power.  They’ll  get  IJ-235  all 
right,  but  not  by  any  present 
method.  That  new  method  will  not 
be  discovered  by  a guy  in  a garret; 
it’ll  come  from  a team  in  a labora- 
tory. Then  they’ll  have  to  lick  the 
gamma  rays,  or  locate  their  plant 
where  nature  will  do  it  for  them. 

And  one  added  factor.  Neutrons 
are  rather  easily  slowed  down — - 


Ill 


water  does  it — but  they  are  not 
easily  stopped.  If  you  slow  down 
a proton,  it  immediately  grabs  an 
electron  and  becomes  a hydrogen 
atom.  If  gamma,  rays  are  slowed 
down,  they  cease  to  exist.  If  alpha 
particles  are  slowed,  they’re  simply 
inert  helium. 

If  you  slow  down  neutrons — 
they’re  still  neutrons,  and  as  danger- 
ous as  they  were  in  the  first  place. 
In  the  case  of  some  atoms,  such  as 
TJ-285,  they’re  more  dangerous.  The 
neutrons  are  fired  out  from  the  ex- 
ploding TJ-235  in  all  directions, 
slowed  by  the  surrounding  water, 
and  wander  in  all  directions.  Some 
wander  back  into  the  atomic  fuel 
and  carry  on  the  good  work,  but 
some  will  wander  out.  Thus,  in  all 
probability,  the  fuel  mass  will  be 
shaped  in  the  form  of  a series  of  con- 
centric cylinders,  so  that  a maximum 
utilization  of  neutrons  can  be  at- 
tained. 

But  some  will  still  simply  drift 
out  in  a fine  mist.  They  drift  casu- 
ally through  water,  migrate  freely, 
gently,  through  feet  of  solid  lead, 
wander  through  half  a mile  of  solid 
rock  with  the  greatest  of  ease.  And 
every  now  and  then  they  drift  into 
an  atom  that  happens  to  go  off,  with 
fireworks,  when  a slow  neutron  drifts 
in.  They  are  not  good  for  the  hu- 
man system.  They  are  much  more 
penetrant  than  gamma  rays. 

They  can  be  stopped,  however. 
Slow  neutrons  drift  into  cadmium 
metal — and  stay.  They  slip  gently 
into  the  cadmium  atom,  settle  peace- 
ably, and  do  absolutely  nothing. 
Therefore,  the  atomic  power  plant 
will  have  to  be  entirely  inclosed  in 
heavy  cadmium  shielding  also.  Cad- 
mium, fortunately,  is  not  too  ex- 
pensive-— many  tools  such  as  pliers, 
wrenches,  et  cetera,  are  being  cad- 
mium plated  instead  of  zinc  plated 
now.  However,  while  cadmium  will 
absorb  neutrons  as  placidly  as  a cow 
absorbs  grass,  unlike  the  cow,  the 


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CITY STATE 


112 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


cadmium  presently  ceases  to  be  cad- 
mium as  a result  of  its  diet.  Cad- 
mium can  absorb  these  particles  un- 
spectacularly  because  there  is  a long 
series  of  stable  cadmium  isotopes, 
one  after  the  other,  each  just  one 
neutron  heavier  than  the  preceding 
one.  The  series  has  a limit,  natu- 
rally. The  cadmium  shielding  will 
have  to  be  renewed  every  now  and 
again,  therefore.  This  would  not  be 
a serious  problem,  however,  as  the 
life  of  the  shielding  would  be  long. 

There  are  some  other  things  to 
consider,  though.  The  early  ways  of 
isolating  U-235  may — will! — be  ex- 
pensive. Perhaps  a power  plant  will 
be  built  using  U-235  before  U-235  is 
cheap  enough  to  make  such  a power 
plant  practical,  and  yet  be  practical! 
That’s  not  a contradiction;  its  sim- 
ply that  such  a U-235  burden  would 
be  a lot  more  than  a power  plant. 

As  mentioned  above,  physicists 
and  biochemists  have  a slight  feud 
on  over  the  use  of  cyclotrons.  Cyclo- 
trons produce  ion-currents  of  the  or- 
der of  thousandths  of  an  ampere; 
their  output  is  in  proportion.  If  they 
were  one-hundred-percent  efficient  in 
adding  neutrons  to  atom  A to  make 
it  into  B,  it  would  take  an  ion  cur- 
rent of  practically  100,000  amperes 
to  change  one  gram-atomic-weight 
of  A to  B,  in  one  second.  At 
one  milliampere,  it  would  take 
100,000,000  seconds  to  change  A to 
B — provided  B isn’t  radioactive  or 
unstable.  If  it  is,  as  in  making 
radio-sodium  for  instance,  you  never 
will  arrive.  You’ll  simply  reach  a 
point  where  the  product  breaks 
down  as  fast  as  you  make  it! 

A small-scale  atomic  power  plant 
will  work  at  a rate  of  amperes.  It 
would  generate  power — but  as  a by- 
product industry,  it  would  put  ra- 
dium out  of  business,  make  desired 
radioactives  by  the  gram  and  make 


’em  in  seconds.  Radioactive  iso- 
topes with  half-lives  of  a few  seconds 
cannot  be  made  today;  they  break 
down  faster  than  cyclotrons  can 
build  them  up.  The  by-product 
radioactives  of  a uranium  plant 
would  make  them  faster  than  they 
broke. 

Gamma  rays  will  be  an  unholy 
menace — and  also  another  very  use- 
ful by-product.  If  the  plant’s  lo- 
cated in  a mountain,  a diamond- 
drilled  hole  that  leads  down  to  the 
reaction  chamber  would  act  as  a 
gamma  ray  spotlight  of  frightful 
power.  A few  thirty-foot  lead  plugs 
to  tame  it  down  to  usable  intensi- 
ties, and  a half  dozen  such  holes 
would  be  needed!  A hospital  for 
gamma  ray  treatment — of  limitless 
intensity! — a number  of  laboratories 
for  crystallographic  and  metallurgi- 
cal study,  some  commercial  large- 
casting  testing  plants,  where  gamma 
ray  photographs  of  the  internal  flaws 
or  lack  thereof  could  be  made  in 
any  casting  up  to  and  including  thir- 
ty-foot-thick lead! 

Not  all  desired  radioactive  ele- 
ments can  be  made  by  neutron  bom- 
bardments; sometimes  protons  or 
electrons  are  desired.  All  right;  we 
could  put  a little  substance  A in  the 
water  passing  the  U-235  mass,  of 
such  a character  that  A,  under  neu- 
tron bombardment,  yielded  protons, 
or  use  B if  electrons  were  desired. 

These  radioactive  substances  will 
be  vastly  important,  and  extremely 
valuable.  Huge  quantities  of  long- 
half-life  isotopes  for  such  things  as 
luminous  paint  would  be  useful.  Bio- 
chemists want  long-lived  radio- 
actives to  trace  metabolism — but  if 
an  isotope  is  long-lived,  its  radio- 
active explosion  is  apt  to  be  weak, 
and  sparse  in  the  small  quantities  a 
cyclotron  can  make.  All  of  which 
can  be  overcome  if  we  make  a real 


SHHHHH— DON’T  MENTION  IT! 


IIS 


quantity  in  our  by-product  power 
plant. 

So,  long  before  atomic  power  pays, 
an  atomic  power  plant  can  be  made 
to  pay.  For  one  thing,  it  would  be 
extremely  valuable  in  finding  out 
what  other  reactions  could  be  used 
to  make  power  alone  pay! 

Man  being  the  general  damn  fool 
he  is,  the  question  of  atomic  explo- 
sives follows  naturally.  They’d  be 
useful,  but  they’d  also  wind  up  on 
the  battlefield.  U-235,  fortunately, 
is  not  the  answer.  It  takes  a sizable 
lump  of  the  substance  to  make  the 
reaction  self-sustaining.  All  U-235 
will  do  is  boil  water.  It’s  atomic 
coal,  not  dynamite.  You  could  make 
a sort  of  steam  bomb,  but  it  would 
be  rather  feeble. 

However,  give  them  time.  A 
match  won’t  explode,  but  it  will 
touch  off  dynamite.  There  are  some 
atoms  that,  once  started,  are  mutu- 
ally self-destructive.  There’s  one 
combination,  for  instance,  where  A, 
bombarded  with  protons,  gives  off 
alpha  particles,  while  B,  bombarded 
with  alpha  particle,  gives  off  protons. 
It  takes  an  enormous  concentration 
of  either  alpha  or  proton  particles  to 
start  the  thing,  hence  no  one  has 
been  able  to  start  it— so  far. 

Another  futuristic  feature  of 
man’s  science  reminds  one  of  the  old 
Roman  method.  Story  goes,  the  Ro- 
mans conquered  Carthage  once  or 
twice,  and  had  to  do  it  over  again 
each  time.  They  finally  fixed  that 
by  leveling  the  city,  then  plowing 
salt  into  the  fields  around  so  that 
nothing  could  grow.  That  time 
Carthage  stayed  conquered.  The 
modem  equivalent  would  probably 
be  to  bomb  the  undesired  city  with 
a few  pounds  of  a long-lived  radio- 
active isotope.  There  would  un- 
doubtedly be  plant  life  left — rather 
weird  stuff,  probably — but  humans 
would  find  it  expedient  to  get  out 


and  stay  out  for  one  hundred  years 
or  so.  A few  uranium  power  plants 
could  rather  easily  manufacture  the 
necessary  isotope  bombs. 

Man’s  rather  apt  to  develop  that 
sort  of  thing  before  he  gets  the  prob- 
lem of  hitching  uranium  to  his  star 
wagon  solved.  There  are  some  real 
headaches  in  trying  to  tame  the  re- 
action in  a light-enough  form  so  that 
the  first  men  to  try  for  Mars  don’t 
get  burned  out  by  gamma  rays  from 
the  power  plant. 

Those  desiring  to  bet  on  how  soon 
they  will — or  will  not — do  that  are 
also  advised  to  pick  something  safe, 
like  the  three-shells-and-a-pea  game. 

One  question  remains;  all  this  is 
interesting,  but  is  there  enough 
U-235  available,  even  if  the  perfect 
separation  method  is  developed,  to 
do  anything  with? 

Unequivocally,  unquestionably, 
yes.  There  are  thousands  of  ions  of 
U-235  available  in  now-known  ura- 
nium ore  deposits.  There  is  atomic 
fuel  enough  for  all  the  world,  and 
it’s  well  and  widely  placed,  in  good, 
concentrated  ore  bodies.  There  are 
two  factors  in  an  element’s  availabil- 
ity. Total  quantity,  and  quantity  in 
reasonably  concentrated  deposits. 
Yttrium,  a “rare  earth”  element  is 
actually  comparatively  common.  Un- 
fortunately, it’s  rather  literally  all 
over  the  Earth.  There  are,  too,  some 
twenty-five  thousand  tons  of  pure 
radium — which  is  really  rare — in  the 
sea  water  of  the  Earth.  Uranium, 
fortunately,  occurs  in  concentrated 
deposits.) 

The  greatest  uranium-ore  deposits 
are  those  in  the  Belgian — at  this 
writing! — Congo,  in  the  northern 
Canadian  deposits,  in  the  Colorado 
beds,  and  in  the  Austrian  section  of 
Germany.  Africa  is  barely  ex- 
plored; there  are  probably  more  de- 
posits there.  South  America  is  so 


114 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


thoroughly  supplied  with  minerals — 
particularly  of  the  Uranium  group, 
too — that  it’s  fairly  certain  there  are 
deposits  somewhere  there.  Australia 
probably  has  some  yet  undiscovered, 
and  if  China  doesn’t  have  some 
workable  deposits  somewhere  it  will 
be  practically  the  only  element  that 
isn’t  available  there. 

The  quantities  of  uranium — all 
isotopes  combined,  of  course — in  the 
known  deposits  are  such  as  to  make 
uranium  a metal  of  major  availabil- 
ity. Molybdenum  and  vanadium, 
two  common  steel-alloying  elements, 
are  less  available.  Uranium  is  rather 
rare  in  general  commerce  for  much 
the  same  reason  titanium,  a very 
widely  available  metal  is;  there’s  lit- 
tle present  use  for  it. 

It  is  used  for  two  things;  uranium 
ore  is  mined  because  it  always  con- 
tains a trace  of  the  impurity  radium. 
It  is  mined  and  used  for  its  own 
sake  as  a ceramic  agent.  In  glass 
and  pottery,  uranium  imparts  a pow- 
erful coloring  action,  giving  a unique 
yellow-green  effect  that,  once  recog- 
nized, can  almost  never  be  mistaken. 
It’s  yellowish  by  reflected  light  and 
green  by  transmitted  light,  which, 
in  glassware,  gives  a curious  air  of 
insubstantiality.  Though  this  is  the 
major  demand  for  uranium  at  pres- 
ent— and  a pound  of  uranium  can 
color  an  amazing  quantity  of  glass — 
the  United  States,  in  1937,  produced 
fifty-one  thousand  pounds  and  im- 


ported an  additional  two  hundred 
thousand  pounds. 

As  a coloring  agent,  uranium  is 
expensive.  It’s  competing  with  co- 
balt oxide,  iron  oxide,  manganese 
dioxide,  selenium,  chromium,  similar 
commoner  materials.  Still,  with  that 
slight  pressure  for  production,  we 
consumed  one  hundred  twenty-five 
tons  of  the  stuff. 

That  included  one.  thousand  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  pure 
U-235,  which  is  now  distributed  in 
glassware  all  over  the  country. 

In  terms  of  fuel  value,  U-235  is 
about  five  million  times  as  potent  as 
coal.  One  pound  of  U-235  equals 
twenty-five  hundred  tons  of  coal. 
The  U-235  consumed  unseparated  in 
glassware  in  1937,  was  the  equiva- 
lent of  three  million,  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  thousand  tons  of 
coal,  in  other  words. 

To  bring  things  into  proportion, 
however,  remember  that  it  is  proba- 
ble that  the  glass  industry  that  year 
used  more  than  three  million  tons  of 
coal  as  fuel.  Though  we  have  atomic 
power,  a nation  that  uses  mechanical 
power  as  we  do  is  going  to  consume 
huge  amounts  of  even  such  potent 
stuff  as  U-235.  Coal  is  consumed 
by  the  hundreds  of  millions  of  tons; 
to  completely  replace  it  with  U-235 
we’d  still  need  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  pounds. 

So — don’t  sell  coal  short  yet, 
either. 


115 


moon  of  exile 


Ey  Harry  HJalfon 


Callisto  was  the  one-way  moon.  And  there  were  no  successful 
escapes,  because  it  wasn't  a man-made  law  that  held  men  there! 

Illustrated  by  R.  Isip 


“No,  sir!”  saicl  the  senior  officer. 
“You  don’t  get  me  to  land  on  Cal- 
listo. But  it’s  a queer  place.”  He 
punched  buttons  on  the  astrogate 
AST— 8 


calculator,  slyly  waiting  for  Ensign 
Wilkins  to  rise  to  the  bait.  They  al- 
ways did. 

“Queer — how?”  asked  _ Wilkins, 


IIS 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


conforming  to  precedent. 

“We-ell,  for  one  thing,  it’s  a port 
o’  call — in  a way  o’  speaking — but 
you’ll  find  an  asterisk  alongside  it 
on  any  call  list  you’ll  ever  see.  That 
means  you  aren’t  to  land  your  ship 
there — ever.” 

“But  how  about  an  emergency — 
burned  tubes,  or  a smashed  hull, 
or — ” 

“Landing  on  Callisto,”  said  the  se- 
nior officer  sententiously,  “is  the 
emergency.  What’s  more,  it  would 
be  your  last  one.” 

He  was  enjoying  himself.  Instruc- 
tion of  these  rookies  was  part  of  his 
job,  but  he  did  it  in  his  own  way. 

“Gee-sparks,  Mr.  Holt,”  pro- 
tested Wilkins,  teen-age  and  full  of 
cold  logic,  “I  don’t  get  it.  The  pur- 
ser told  me  you  landed  two  passen- 
gers here  last  trip.  How  come?” 
The  senior  officer  rolled  his  chew 
over  to  the  other  side  of  his  mouth 
before  answering.  “Guess  they 
wanted  to  get  there  pretty  badly. 
People  have  reasons— sometimes.  So 
if  they’re  willing  to  sign  that  they’re 
of  sound  mind  and  going  of  their 
own  accord  and  not  under  duress,  we 
land  them.  By  themselves,  in  a 9B 
automatic  lifeship.  Is  that  clear?” 
“No,  sir,”  retorted  Wilkins.  “What 
have  you  got  to  land  them  in  an  au- 
tomatic for?  Why  not  use  the 
tender,  same  as  you  would  anywhere 
else?  That’s  what  it’s  for—” 

“Not  for  Callisto  landing,  it  isn’t, 
son.  We  need  that  tender  other 
places.  Besides,  the  fellows  who  pi- 
lot it  have  wives  and  children  they 
want  to  get  back  to.  So  we  use  a 
9B  automatic,  because  there  isn’t  a 
man  aboard  who’d  willingly  set  foot 
on  Callisto.” 

“Maybe  I’m  dumb,”  said  Ensign 
Wilkins  morosely,  “but  I don’t  get 
it.  If  it’s  that  dangerous,  why  land 
anybody ? And,  anyway,  why  would 
they  want  to  land?  There’s  lots 


cheaper  ways  of  committing  suicide, 
seems  to  me.” 

“Who  said  anything  about  sui- 
cide? Callisto’s  as  nice  a little  spot 
as  you’ll  find  in  twenty  years’  cruis- 
ing. Good  air,  even  if  it  is  a bit  thin, 
and  good  water.  Cold  outside,  but 
cozy  enough  under  the  city  domes. 
Plenty  of  jobs  because  labor  is  al- 
ways scarce,  and  your  neighbors  are 
some  of  the  best  and  smartest  peo- 
lep  who  ever  retired.  Some  of  them 
are  a bit  screwy — eccentric,  they  call 
it — and  plenty  of  them  are  rich.  Oh, 
you  can  do  all  right  by  yourself 
down  there.” 

“So,”  pursued  Ensign  Wilkins, 
“what’s  wrong  with  it?” 

“Not  much.  There’s  just  one 
thing  that  makes  Callisto  poison  to 
young  fellows  like  you  who  want  to 
see  the  System  before  settling  down, 
or  to  us  older  ones  who  have  settled 
down  and  have  wives  and  kids  back 
home.  Just  one  thing’s  wrong  with 
Callisto.  You  can’t  leave.” 

“Oh,  is  that  it?”  asked  Wilkins 
scornfully.  “I  thought  conscriptive 
colonization  was  outlawed  long  ago. 
How  do  they  get  away  with  it?  Gee- 
sparks,  one  of  our  patrol  squads 
could  clean  up  the  whole  pill  and  put 
in  a legitimate  government  that — ” 

“You’re  accelerating  way  ahead  of 
your  jets,  son.  The  government’s 
legitimate.  Callisto’s  conscriptive 
colonization  isn’t  its  fault.  It’s  Cal- 
listo’s. You  just  can’t  leave.” 

Wilkins  shook  his  head  in  bewil- 
derment. “They  never  told  us 
about  this  at  the  academy.  They 
always  told  us  Callisto  would  be  cov- 
ered on  our  first  training  flight.” 

“Sure.  I’m  covering  it,  ain’t  I? 
Fact  is,  the  Bureau  of  Correction 
doesn’t  want  the  facts  spread  any 
more  than  can  be  helped.  Callisto 
is  a taboo  subject,  back  home.  You’ll 
be  cautioned  when  you  leave  ship. 
Of  course,  the  big-time  crooks  know 


MOON  OF  EXILE 


117 


about  it,  and  it  sifts  down  to  the 
little  ones  more  or  less.  But  we 
aren’t  advertising  it.  To  get  back, 
though — I slipped  up  a bit,  when  I 
said  you  can’t  leave — ” 

“I  thought  that  sounded  funny. 
You  can,  huh?” 

“We-ell,  yes.  You  see,  Sperry 
was  the  first  to  land  here,  in  ’93. 
He  found  things  pretty  good — no 
dangerous  animals  or  savages,  no 
particularly  bad  magnetic  storms, 
suitable  air  and  water.  He  filled  his 
diary  with  enthusiastic  plans  for  a 
colony,  and  after  twenty  days  took 
off  again  without  any  trouble.  You 
know  how  his  ship  was  found  drift- 
ing, four  years  later.  The  only  traces 
of  Sperry  and  his  men  were  their 
clothing,  watches,  a ring  or  two,  and 
the  fillings  out  of  their  teeth.  Noth- 
ing organic,  not  even  bones.  The 
ship’s  log  had  been  kept  for  thirty 
hours  following  their  departure  from 
Callisto.  It’s  never  been  published, 
but  you  can  see  copies  of  it  at  any 
good  planetary  museum.  It  makes 
grisly  reading,  though.” 

“Grisly,  sir?” 

“Sort  of.  Sperry  wrote  that,  nine 
hours  out,  somebody  noticed  that  the 
walls  of  the  ship  were  beginning  to 
glow.  It  was  a cold,  bluish  light, 
with  a wide  frequency  range  which 
analysis  showed  to  extend  into  the 
Gamma  radiations  and  farther.  Two 
hours  later  they  -found  their  skins 
were  glowing  the  same  way. 

“Sperry  knew  he  was  into  some- 
thing bad.  He  recorded  all  his  own 
sensations— and  they  weren’t  nice. 
Well,  to  cut  it  short,  they  died.  The 
diary  just  stops,  but  there’s  enough 
to  show  that  it  must  have  been 
hell—” 

“Jeez!”  said  Wilkins. 

“O’  course,  humans  being  as  con- 
trary as  they  are,  nothing  could  keep 
them  away  from  Callisto  after  that. 


One  whacky  chap  landed  there  de- 
spite the  official  ban — he  beat  a pa- 
trol cruiser  out  by  a couple  of  min- 
utes, which  was  enough,  for  the 
cruiser  captain  wouldn’t  land.  After 
living  on  Callisto  for  a year  this  fel- 
low thought  he’d  licked  the  thing  by 
using  some  sort  of  serum  he’d  syn- 
thesized. Ten  hours  after  he  started 
home  he  was  going  the  way  Sperry 
had.  Then  he  about-faced  and  of- 
fered the  theory  that  Callisto’s  ra- 
dioactive core  was  back  of  the  trou- 
ble— that  its  radiation  altered  the 
nuclear  structure  of  matter  to  a new 
form,  which  remained  stable  in  that 
form  so  long  as  it  remained  on  Cal- 
listo. Something  about  enormous 
quantities  of  free  positrons — only  it 
turned  out  they  weren’t  exactly  posi- 
trons after  all. 

“Anyway,  your  atomic  structure  is 
changed  as  soon  as  you  approach 
Callisto’s  surface.  You’re  safe  while 
you  stay  put.  If  you  leave,  your 
atoms  become  unstable,  radioactive. 
The  nucli  simply  disintegrate.  You 
get  what  amount  physiologically  to 
an  ultrarapid  and  incurable  radium 
burn — only  it  isn’t  a radium  burn. 
You  die  within  thirty  hours,  but  it 
doesn’t  stop  there.  Organic  matter 
disintegrates  entirely  in  about  eighty 
hours.  We  learned  that  afterward, 
but  this  poor  chap’s  work  wasn’t 
wasted.  The  next  expedition  pre- 
pared to  stay  permanently,  and  did. 
It  turned  out  he  was  right — and  you 
still  can’t  leave  Callisto.” 

“Jeez!  But  they  told  us  at  school 
that  beta  radium  was  shipped  from 
there.  How  do  you  manage  that?” 

The  senior  officer  carefully  spat 
out  his  chew — not  on  the  spotless 
control  deck,  but  into  a paper  ker- 
chief he  had  learned  to  carry  for  the 
purpose. 

“The  same  automatic  lifeships, 
son.  They  load  them  down  there, 
and  set  the  controls  for  an  orbit 


118 


MORE  THAN 

40,000,000 

BUYERS 

CAATT  BE  WRONG! 

HE  SHADOW  is  now  passing  its 
two-hundredth  issue.  That  means 
more  than  40,000,000  people 
have  each  paid  10  cents  for  a copy 
of  The  Shadow — 

$4,000,000  have  passed  over  the 
newsstands  of  America — 

It  is  estimated  that  five  people 
read  every  copy — 200,000,000  testify 
to  its  popularity. 

Many  millions  more  listen  to  The 
Shadow  over  the  radio,  look  at  him 
each  week  on  the  screen  and  enjoy 
him  in  the  Comics. 

If  you  aren't  a Shadow  Fan  start 
today  to  join  the  crowd — 

THE  SHADOW 

ON  SALE  EVERYWHERE 
10  CENTS  THE  COPY 


about  four  thousand  miles  from  the 
surface.  After  the  9B  has  swung 
around  out  there  for  six  months — it 
doesn’t  take  any  power  once  it’s  in 
position — it’s  safe  to  go  aboard.  In- 
animate matter  slowly  radiates  off 
the  energy  it  has  absorbed,  and  set- 
tles back  to  the  familiar  stable  form 
we  know.  The  beta  radium,  inci- 
dentally, turns  into  ordinary  radium. 
So  after  six  months’  quarantine  a 
liner  pulls  alongside  and  warps  the 
automatic  to  a deck  anchorage,  and 
everything’s  fine.  Sometimes,  of 
course,  we  find  some  damn-fool  stow- 
away has  hid  himself  aboard.  Not 
that  there’s  anything  left  of  him,  but 
it’s  a squeamish  thing  to  run  across 
all  the  same.” 

Ensign  Wilkins  considered. 

“Guess  I wouldn’t  want  to  go 
there — not  for  a long  time,  anyway. 
Not  unless  the  patrol  were  after  me. 
Gee-sparks,  what  a place  for  crooks 
to  hide  out — •” 

“There’s  no  extradition  from  Cal- 
listo,”  said  the  senior  officer  dryly. 
“And  the  government  doesn’t  prose- 
cute extraterritorial  offenses.  That’s 
W'hy,  as  I said,  the  Bureau  of  Cor- 
rection isn’t  crazy  to  advertise  the 
place—” 

“Callisto,  isn’t  it?”  asked  the 
girl.  “It’s  beautiful — a little  like 
Earth.” 

Her  companion  nodded,  and  wdth 
the  movement  his  black  silkene  eve- 
ning jacket  gleamed  dully  in  the 
Jupiter  light  that  came  through  the 
observation  port.  They  were  alone 
on  this  deck — except  for  a secret- 
service  man  who  knew  how  to  keep 
himself  out  of  the  way.  Brant  had 
ordered  it  so.  It  was  on,e  of  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  felt  that  he  could 
talk  freely  and  sincerely. 

“Beautiful,  but  grim,”  he  an- 
swered. “Especially  to  you,  Sharon, 
it  could  be  grim  as  death.  To  Sharon 
Tryst,  Callisto  wmuld  be  a form  of 
death.” 


MOON  OF  EXILE 


119 


She  turned  to  him,  startled.  “Jo- 
seph! What  are  you  saying?” 

“Nothing  to  trouble  you.  Forgive 
me  for  thinking  in  metaphors.”  A 
smile  lighted  his  dark  face  briefly. 
“I  can  think  of  nothing  less  com- 
patible than  Callisto  and  Sljaron 
Tryst.  The  one  is  oblivion,  a world 
of  ghosts.  And  you — three  worlds 
are  at  your  feet.  You  are  beautiful. 
Your  talent  has  made  you  the  idol 
of  millions — ” 

“I’ve  been  lucky,”  the  girl  said, 
flushing  a little.  “An  entertainer 
needs  luck,  and  believes  in  it.  We’re 
all  superstitious,  especially  those  of 
us  who  play  to  the  telescreens.  And 
talking  about  one’s  talent  is  un- 
lucky—” 

“There  is  no  bad  fortune,”  he  said 
softly,  “for  those  whom  Joseph  Brant 
approves.  No — Callisto.” 

“You  think  Callisto  would  be  so 
terrible?”  she  asked  lightly. 

“Not  terrible,  but  tragic.”  The 
man’s  face,  in  that  keen  light,  was 
pale  and  stern.  The  same  illumina- 
tion which  brought  out  the  harsh 
asceticism  of  his  features  wrought  for 
her  an  aura  of  silver  loveliness,  en- 
hancing the  soft  curve  of  her  white 
throat,  tinting  her  oval  face  with 
light,  working  lustrous  magic  with 
her  hair. 

“Callisto — and  Sharon  Tryst. 
Strange  to  speak  those  names  in  the 
same  breath.  I should  not,  but  the 
mood  is  on  me.  I think  it  is  because 
the  thought  makes  me  afraid.” 

“Afraid?”  she  parried.  “Overlord 
Joseph  Brant  afraid?  Then  I can  be 
frank.  I am  afraid  for  the  overlord. 
You  are  strong,  Joseph — but  very 
blind.  Sometimes  I feel  I cannot 
love  you  for  fear — or  perhaps  fear 
only  confuses  my  love.” 

“Then  you  shall  not  fear.  I for- 
bid it,  Sharon.” 

She  smiled  tremulously.  “You  for- 
bid? Are  you  God,  Joseph,  that  you 


can  rule  even  a woman’s  heart?  No, 
but  you  might  lift  the  weight  from 
it.  Oh,  Joseph,  why  will  you  risk 
all  you  have  won — and  your  own 
life — in  a war  with  Venus?  Surely 
you  have  enough — absolute  control 
of  Earth  and  Mars.  No  man  ever 
had  such  power  before  you.  But  you 
are  still  not  content.  You  want 
Venus  also.  Your  own  Congress  is 
turning  against  you — ” 

“The  Congress  is  weak  where  I am 
strong,”  he  retorted.  “A  pack  of 
squabbling  deputies.  They  can  do 
nothing.” 

“A  new  war  will  unite  them.  Our 
worlds  are  tired  of  war,  Joseph.  Why 
must  we  have  more  of  it?” 

His  thin  lips  were  compressed  to 
a pale,  straight  line.  He  waited  a 
little  before  answering.  “For  ulti- 
mate peace,  a lasting  peace  that  is 
impossible  while  each  world  remains 
a sovereign  state.  I war  for  peace, 
Sharon.  Ten  years  more — and 
worlds  united  under  me.  I ask  ten 
years  to  end  forever  the  senseless, 
bitter  struggles  of  the  past — those 
butcherings  called  the  Fifty  Years 
War,  the  Century  of  Plagues,  the 
Mars-Earth  War.  I war  to  make  a 
repetition  of  them  impossible.  My 
mother  bore  me  during  the  Century 
of  Plagues.  She  had  already  breathed 
the  spotted  death,  and  her  body — 
I’ll  not  tell  you  that.  But  I war  to 
end  war,  Sharon.  After  me,  peace.” 
“And  with  you,”  she  said  bitterly, 
“death  and  death!” 

He  flinched  a little.  “It  is  my 
decision.  You  will  live  to  see  me 
right,  as  I was  nine  years  ago  when 
I ended  the  Earth  wars  by  uniting 
all  governments  under  me — ” 

“And  could  have  given  them 
peace,  Joseph,  but  you  did  not.  In- 
stead, we  have  had  seven  years  of 
war  with  Mars.  Now  Mars  is  yours, 
and  you  demand  war  with  Venus. 
There  are  rumors  that  the  Congress 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


120 

will  ask  a constitution,  even  the  end 
of  the  overlordship.  If  you  refuse, 
they  may  try  to  kill  you.  The  peo- 
ple are  desperate.  I am  afraid,  Jo- 
seph— for  you.” 

“How  long  have  you  known  me?” 
he  asked  harshly. 

“How  long?  I came  on  board  only 
forty  days  ago.  You  had  just  ended 
your  tour  of  the  outer  colonies — ” 

“And  still  you  do  not  know  me,” 
he  burst  out  in  cold  passion.  “All  I 
do  is  for  their  sakes — theirs,  not 
mine.  I must  live,  I must  remain 
in  power,  I must  crush  any  who  op- 
pose me — because  without  me  they 
will  return  to  the  barbarism  of  ten 
years  ago.  You  think  I can  forget 
what  it  has  cost  me — that  I lack  the 
small,  common  virtues  of  common 
men?  They  are  luxuries  I cannot 
afford.  I dare  not  take  account  of 
gratitude,  or  honor,  or  human  lives. 
I am  an  instrument,  a scalpel  to  cut 
away  the  rottenness  that  has  eaten 
so  deeply,  no  matter  what  the  cost.” 

“No  matter  what  the  cost,”  she 
echoed.  “It  is  you  who  are  tragic, 
Joseph.  Because  you  are  sincere — ” 

She  turned  away  to  look  out  of 
the  port,  where  Callisto  rolled  ma- 
jestically before  the  great  white  face 
of  Jupiter.  Brant’s  pale  face  was  im- 
mobile, but  one  hand  rustled  in  a 
pocket. 

“You  love  me,”  he  said  abruptly. 
“It  is  only  that  you  are  afraid — ” 

She  turned  her  head  slowly.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes,  luminous  in 
the  planet  glow.  “It  is  why  I am 
afraid.  I love  you,  Joseph.  God 
pity  us  both — ” 

A sob  shook  her  slim  body.  She 
turned  suddenly  away  and  ran  down 
the  deck  corridor.  He  did  not  follow. 

“Lifeship  27  ready  for  Callisto 
landing,  sir.  No  passengers,  I un- 
derstand.” 

“On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Holt.  There 


is  one — a last-minute  decision,  I be- 
lieve. We  hadn’t  any  scheduled.” 
Commander  Orens’  voice  was  offi- 
cially phlegmatic,  but  his  senior  offi- 
cer detected  an  emotional  undertone. 
“You’ll  be  as  surprised  as  I was,  I 
daresay.  But  you’d  better  get  along 
to  impart  landing  instructions.  I 
can’t  help  saying  it’s  a pity — ” 
Which  was,  for  Commander  Orens, 
a very  outburst  of  emotion.  The 
senior  officer  coughed,  saluted,  and 
went  his  way.  A communications 
officers  caught  the  captain’s  eye. 
“Helio,  sir,  from  Mars.  Urgent.” 
Orens  took  the  green  envelope  and 
absently  ripped  it  open.  A grunt  of 
annoyance  escaped  him.  The  junior 
officer  waited  with  patient  expect- 
ancy. 

“Bureau  of  Correction,”  grumbled 
the  commander.  “Asking  us  to  ap- 
prehend a Martian,  name  of  Thar- 
ner,  wanted  for  dope  smuggling  and 
murder.  Wonderful  how  they  al- 
ways learn  then-  man’s  aboard  after 
we’ve  been  out  four  months.  Chap 
could  have  skipped  at  a dozen 
places.” 

“But  most  likely  to  try  at  Callisto, 
sir,”  offered  the  junior  officer  with  a 
wry  grin. 

“Eh?  That’s  so,  of  course.  Put  a 
guard  on  the  Callisto  ship  at  once. 
Inform  Mr.  Holt.  Look  up  the  pas- 
senger list  and  see  if  you  can  spot 
an  alias.  He’d  probably  reverse  his 
name  to  Renrath  or  something  sim- 
ple like  that.  These  Martians 
haven’t  a damn  bit  of  imagination.” 
“Aye,  sir.”  The  junior  officer 
turned  away,  looking  back  as  Orens 
coughed  hesitantly. 

“That  girl,  Sharon  Tryst,”  said 
the  commander.  “Telescreen  star 
and  all  that.  Sits  at  the  overlord’s 
table.  You’d  think  she  had  every- 
thing to  live  for,  wouldn’t  you?” 
The  junior  officer  goggled. 
“Well?”  snapped  Orens.  “What 


MOON  OF  EXILE 


121 


are  you  waiting  for?  Check  up  on 
that  Tharner  chap.  Investigate 
every,  Martian  aboard.  He  can’t  be 
disguised  as  an  Earthman.  Get 
going.”  _ 

The  junior  officer  thankfuly  got 
going. 

“Once  you  press  the  red  starting 
button,  Miss  Tryst,  everything  is  un- 
der automatic  control  until  you’re 
within  fifty  thousand  feet  of  Callisto. 
The  ship  will  hover  at  that  altitude 
until  you  press  the'  white  landing 
key  which  sets  it  on  the  beam  from 
the  field.  If  you  shouldn’t  want  to 
land,  you  can  return  to  the  White 
Star  simply  by  pressing  the  red  key 
again.  We’ll  remain  right  where  we 
are  until  you  either  land  or  return. 
White  key  to  land,  red  key  to  re- 
turn; you’ll  find  them  marked,  of 
course.” 

“I  ...  I think  I understand.” 

Her  eyes  were  dry  and  clear  and, 
the  senior  officer  thought,  very  beau- 
tiful. He  decided  that  Orens  had  un- 
derstated things.  It  wasn’t  just  a 
pity;  it  was  a cursed  shame  for  a girl 
like  this  to  banish  herself  to  Callisto 
with  a lot  of  bald  and  doddering 
retired  millionaires.  Then  the  cynic 
in  him  came  to  the  surface  as  he  re- 
flected that  plenty  of  telescreen  stars 
had  found  the  one-way  trip  a good 
investment;  a million  credits  could 
be  a lot  of  consolation  for  renounc- 
ing the  white  lights  of.  Terra.  But 
this  girl  didn’t  look  just  that  kind. 
Were  he  in  the  overlord’s  shoes, 
thought  the  senior  officer,  he 
wouldn’t  let  her  go  out  of  his  life  like 
this. 

“Well,  I . . . that’s  about  all,  I 
guess,”  he  floundered.  “Your  bag- 
gage is  aboard.  I’ll  leave  now,  and 
any  time  you’re  ready  you  can  punch 
the  red  button.  That  will  seal  off  the 
entrance  port,  release  the  magnetic 
anchors,  and  start  you  down,  all  in 


proper  order.  Any  time  you’re 
ready.  The  . . , the  best  of  luck, 
Miss  Tryst.” 

“Thank  you,  Mr.  Holt.” 

He  rose  awkwardly  to  his  feet.  At 
the  door  of  the  tiny  port  corridor  he 
looked  back. 

“If  you  want  to  change  your  mind 
— I mean,  lots  of  people  do — it’s  per- 
fectly all  right.  Just  don’t  touch 
the  white  key.  We’d  . . . we’d  be 
proud  to  have  you  back,  Miss 
Tryst.” 

She  smiled  gratefully,  and  the  se- 
nior officer  retreated  precipitately, 
very  much  afraid  that  she  would 
break  into  tears  or  he  would  say 
something  foolish. 

For  a little  time  after  he  left  she 
sat  perfectly  still,  staring  at  the  red 
key. 

Commander  Orens,  urged  equally 
by  a desire  to  be  of  service  to  the 
overlord  and  to  save  a young  woman 
from  what  he  felt  to  be  an  impetu- 
ous mistake,  had  at  once  sent  out  a 
call  for  Joseph  Brant  to  communi- 
cate with  him.  The  overlord  could 
not  be  reached,  and  Orens  was  in  a 
fine  frenzy  of  apprehension. 

The  senior  officer,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  stand  by  until  the  lifeship 
bearing  Sharon  Tryst  had  taken  off, 
was  doing  just  that,  but  violently 
wishing  something  could  be  done 
about  it. 

The  stewardess  in  charge  of  Sharon 
Tryst’s  cabin,  possessed  either  of 
special  information  or  that  insight 
called  feminine  intuition,  found  Jo- 
seph Brant  just  where  the  girl  had 
left  him,  staring  out  through  the  ob- 
servation port.  She  promptly  un- 
burdened herself  to  him. 

“And,  of  course,  it’s  none  of  my 
business,  sir,  but  I thought  you 
might  like  to  know  that  she’s  gone 
on  board  the  Callisto  ship.  She  must 
have  made  up  her  mind  awfully  sud- 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


m 


den.  I think  she  was  crying  when 
she  came  in  to  pack.  Anyway — ” 

Brant  hurled  her  aside  and  shot 
down  the  observation  corridor.  He 
was  well  enough  acquainted  with  the 
White  Star  to  find  the  lifeship  deck 
without  delay,  and  without  a word 
to  the  astounded  senior  officer 
charged  into  Lifeship  through  the 
still  unsealed  port.  The  senior  offi- 
cer looked  after  him  with  a quizzical 
but  broadening  grim.  The  overlord 
wasn’t  so  slow,  after  all! 

A soft  sl-sli-sh  from  the  pneumatic 
port,  the  click  of  magnetic  grapples 
letting  go,  froze  the  grin  just  as  it 
was.  The  brief  roar  of  rockets,  drum- 
ming against  the  deck  cradle,  ceased 
almost  instantly  as  the  lifeship  lifted 
away. 

At  the  very  moment  Joseph  Brant 
burst  from  the  port  corridor  into  the 
tiny  cabin,  his  hasty  footsteps  well 


muffled  by  the  resilient  heat  insula- 
tion which  covered  floor,  walls  and 
ceiling  of  the  little  craft,  Sharon 
Tryst  had  pressed  the  red  key.  Al- 
though the  girl’s  back  was  toward 
him,  Brant  saw  the  movement.  An 
instant  later  the  roar  of  rockets  in- 
formed him  that  they  had  left  the 
White  Star.  Knowing  how  Callisto 
landings  were  arranged,  and  that  the 
departure  was  not  as  yet  irrevocable, 
Brant  felt  no  concern.  He  congratu- 
lated himself  on  having  got  aboard 
just  in  time. 

“Sharon,”  he  said  gently. 

She  spun  around,  her  eyes  wide, 
her  gaze  fixed  as  though  in  fright. 
Her  face  might  have  been  carved  of 
white  marble. 

Anxious  to  mitigate  the  shock 
which  his  appearance  had  produced, 
Brant  remained  where  he  was,  some 
ten  feet  from  her.  “Why  did  you 
leave  me,  Sharon?  Did  you  think  I 


TALES  OF  OUR  FADING  FRONTIER 


July  will  be  a banner  month,  with  every  issue  packed  with  breathless 
and  exciting  entertainment. 

Dead  men  tell  no  tales,  but  Wingy  Carr  and  his  fighting  gun  hawks 
got  a message  from  beyond  the  grave  in 

BRANDED  ARROW  POINTED  NORTH  . Walt  Coburn  . July  1 3th  Issue 


The  trail  which  Rob  Daley  followed  into  the  Black 
Mesas  led  to  a lost  world.  . . . 

CANYON  OF  THE  LONG  SKULLS  . Kenneth  Perkins  . July  20th  Issue 

Mike  McBride  is  heir  to  a gunsmoke  heritage  that 
he  almost  loses  when 

DEATH  TAKES  A TALLY T.  T.  Flynn July  27th  Issue 

Lead  bullets  are  spent  by  the  score  because  of  a 
single  golden  bullet  in  L.  L.  Foreman's  novel  of  mys- 
tery and  intrigue  on  the  Border.  . . . Jay  Lucas  be- 
gins a thrill-packed  serial.  . . . Kenneth 
Colter,  and  other  ace  Western  writers 
shorts  ...  all  in  the  August  3rd  Issue. 


WESTERN  STORY 


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MOON  OF  EXILE 


123 


could  let  you  go — that  I loved  you 
as  feebly  as  that?” 

She  shook  her  head  as  though  be- 
wildered. “Don’t  talk  of  love  be- 
tween us,  Joseph.  You  shouldn’t 
have  come.  I prayed  you  would 
not.” 

“I  thank  my  destiny  I did — to  ask 
you  to  come  back  with  me,  Sharon 
— to  be  my  wife.” 

She  shrank  back  against  the  con- 
trol panel.  Her  voice  was  so  low  it 
scarcely  reached  him.  “That  can’t 
be.  That  is  impossible — now.” 

“Not  impossible,  Sharon.  What- 
ever I may  have  done,  in  whatever 
way  I have  hurt  you,  to  drive  you  to 
this  tragic  gesture,  I’ll  live  to  make 
up  for  it.  I know  I love  you.  You 
have  said  you  love  me.  Come  back 
with  me,  Sharon.  I do  not  command 
now.  I implore  it  of  the  woman  I 
love.” 

She  might  have  answered,  but 
looking  past  him,  stiffened  instead 
in  sudden  surprise. 

“A  handss-some  ‘ sspeech,”  re- 
marked a strange  voice.  “How  ss-sad 
that  sshe  iss  right.  What  you  ask 
iss  indeed  impossible.” 

Brant  whirled.  In  the  corridor 
behind  him  stood  a short,  rotund 
figure.  Green  hair  fronds  bobbed 
characteristically  on  the  bullet  head. 
Tiny  albino  eyes,  so  pale  as  to  appear 
pupilless,  stared  unwinkingly  above 
a hand  that  held  a magneto  gun  un- 
waveringly in  line  with  Brant’s  ab- 
domen. 

“Put  down  that  gun,”  ordered  the 
overlord.  “Who  are  you?”. 

The  other  leered,  showing  black 
teeth.  “Tharner  iss  my  name,”  he 
answered,  with  the  slow,  hissing 
enunciation  common  to  Martians. 
“Your  poliss.  Overlord  Brant,  have 
called  me  very  dangerouss.  I have 
never  been  more  dangerouss  than  I 
am  now.  I am  esscaping  to  Cal- 
liss-to.” 


“Put  down  that  gun,”  repeated 
Brant  calmly. 

“With  gladness — after  we  have 
safely  landed  on  Calliss-to.  How  cu- 
riouss  that  I should  ss-serve  my 
world  a good  turn  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  itss  government  wishess 
to  ss-send  me  to  the  lethal  chamber. 
Yet  it  iss  I,  the  despised  and  hated 
Tharner,  who  am  about  to  free  it 
from  a tyrant.  Iss  it  not  a ss-splen- 
did  irony?  I would  not  ss-sell  this 
moment,  Overlord  Brant,  for  all  the 
creditss  in  your  treasury.” 

“No?  But  what  if  I guarantee 
you  a free  and  full  pardon?”  asked 
Brant  shrewdly.  “Plus — a bonus.” 

The  Martian  again  showed  his 
teeth.  “A  tempting  offer,  Overlord 
Brant.  But  it  doess  not  tempt  me. 
It  remindss  me  much  of  the  treaty 
you  made  with  my  world  shortly 
after  you  came  to  power  on  Earth. 
It  wass  a very  fair  treaty,  as  fair  as 
the  offer  you  have  now  made  me. 
But  you  did  not  keep  it.  My  gov- 
ernment truss-ted  you.  Very  foolish. 
I am  not  so  foolish.” 

“Don’t  be  insane,  man,”  snapped 
Brant.  “You’ve  got  me  in  a squeeze 
and  you  know  it.  Do  you  think  the 
small  matter  of  your  punishment 
would  weigh  with  me  at  a moment 
like  this?  I’ll  sign  any  sort  of  guar- 
antee you  like — and  keep  it.” 

Tharner  stared  at  him  thought- 
fully, the  gun  sagging  a little  in  his 
hand.  But  it  snapped  up  again  at 
once. 

“Now,  that  iss  queer,  I believe 
you,  after  all,  Overlord  Brant.  I 
think  you  would  keep  thiss  agree- 
ment, because  any  bargain  we  might 
make  would  be  an  excellent  one  for 
you.  But  I shall  not  make  one.  Al- 
though for  yearss  I have  looted  my 
world  for  my  own  benefit,  I am  a 
Martian,  after  all.  I am  ss-suddenly 
ss-sentimental.  I wish  to  leave  be- 
hind me  a ss-single  ss-splendid  ges- 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


134 

ture.  I will  set  my  world  free  by 
taking  you  to  Calliss-to  with  me. 
Without  you,  the  overlordship  will 
collapsse.” 

Brant  drew  a deep  breath  of  ex- 
asperation. “A  million  credits  and 
full  pardon,  Tharner.  Can  you  re- 
fuse that?” 

Tharner  shrugged.  “Yess.  I am 
a fool — but  yess.” 

“You  know  that  the  landing  beam 
will  bring  us  down  on  the  govern- 
ment field,  that  police  will  be  on 
hand  to  receive  us?  I’ll  file  charges 
against  you  immediately.  You’ll  be 
clapped  into  the  radium  mines  with- 
out trial-—” 

Tharner  nodded  cheerfully.  “The 
mines  would  be  terrible.  I should 
not  like  to  be  sent  to  them.  That 
iss  why  I would  much  rather  not 
shoot  you,  Overlord  Brant.  For  sso 
long  as  I do  not  murder  in  their  ter- 
ritory, the  poliss  of  Calliss-to  will 
not  charge  me  with  my  previouss 
crimess.  If  you  charge  me  for 
threatening  you  with  a weapon,  I 
shall  simply  confess  that  I am 
wanted  by  your  poliss  and  dared  not 
return  to  the  White  Star.  They  will 
not  ss-send  me  to  the  miness  for 
that.  They  will  not  even  ss-sentence 
me  to  please  you,  for  when  we  have 
landed  on  Calliss-to  you  will  no 
longer  be  Overlord  Brant.” 

Thebe  was  silence  in  the  little 
cabin.  This  was  crisis,  as  Brant 
knew  perfectly  well.  A crisis  in 
which  an  opponent  held  all  the 
trumps.  This  egotistical  little  fool 
wanted,  above  all  else,  the  satisfac- 
tion of  besting  Joseph  Brant.  Mar- 
tians were  always  egotistical,  beyond 
all  reason  and  self-interest  at  times. 
It  was  a weakness  of  theirs.  They 
had  others.  One  was  an  absurd  slow- 
ness of  reaction  compared  to  that  of 
Earthmen.  Tharner  knew  that,  of 
course.  It  was  why  he  kept  the  mag- 


neto gun  constantly  upon  him,  ignor- 
ing Sharon  but  for  a watchful  glance 
now  and  then.  And  he  wasn’t  watch- 
ing her  now. 

Brant  suddenly  tensed  his  whole 
body,  his  eyes  sweeping  from  Thar- 
ner to  the  girl.  “God,  no,  Sharon! 
Don’t  try—” 

It  had  the  effect  he  was  counting 
on.  The  Martian’s  attention  wa- 
vered, and  in  that  instant  Brant 
jumped  him — despite  the  gun,  which 
might  as  well  have  been  in  its  hol- 
ster. The  overlord’s  fist  crashed 
solidly  against  Tharner’s  fragile  jaw, 
crunching  bone  before  it.  Tharner 
dropped  like  a felled  tree.  Brant 
kicked  the  gun  far  back  into  the  cor- 
ridor. He  suddenly  realized  that  the 
rockets  were  silent,  that  all  motion 
had  ceased.  The  lifeship  must  be 
hovering. 

“Just  in  time,  Sharon,”  he  said 
with  forced  cheerfulness,  for  the 
situation  had  tried  even  his  iron 
nerves.  “I’m  sorry  I had  to — ” 

The  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 
Sharon  Tryst  was  watching  him,  a 
paralysis  pistol  in  her  right  hand. 
Her  left  was  upon  the  white  landing 
key. 

“Keep  back,  Joseph.  Not  another 
step — ” 

“Sharon!  Have  you  gone  mad? 
What  is  this  man  to  you?  Is  he — -” 

“Nothing,  Joseph.”  Her  lips 
scarcely  moved,  and  were  almost  as 
bloodless  as  her  cheeks.  “But  I could 
have  worshiped  him  for  what  he  did. 
I hoped  that — Stand  back,  Jo- 
seph.” 

He  stopped,  irresolute. 

“I  hoped  that  he  would  spare  me 
this,”  she  went  on,  “but  you  won — 
as  you  always  have,  Joseph.  So  I 
must  do  this.  We  are  going  on  to 
Callisto.” 

“Sharon,  you — ” 

“Don’t,  Joseph.  Nothing  you 


MOON  OF  EXILE 


125 


could  say  would  change  things  now. 
I’ve  thought  this  out,  and  the  strug- 
gle is  done  with.  No,  don’t  talk. 
Let  me  confess,  because  then  there 
will  be  nothing  left  to  say.  I was 
chosen  to  do  this — the  Congress 
wasn’t  sure  of  itself,  dreaded  your 
return.  I was  planted  on  the  White 
Star.  I was  to  make  you  love  me, 
then  pretend  a quarrel  and  a silly, 
last-minute  decision  to  go  to  Callisto. 
To  make  sure  you  would  follow  me 
on  board  I bribed  my  stewardess  to 
tell  you  I was  leaving.  I waited  for 
you  to  come  before  pressing  the 
starting  key — ” 

“But  you  couldn’t  have  seen  me. 
Your  back  was  turned — ” 

“I  was  watching  for  you — in  a 
mirror.  A woman’s  trick.  When 
this  man  appeared  I had  wild  hopes 
of  hiding  my  . . . my  treachery 
from  you.  But  you  defeated  him. 
Now  you  know  everything,  Joseph. 
I had  to  betray  you,  no  matter  what 
the  cost.  Your  own  words,  Joseph. 
That  is  why  I asked  God  to  pity  us 
both—” 

“God  himself  could  not  forgive 
this,”  he  said  harshly.  “Woman,  do 
you  realize  what  you  are  doing?” 

■ Her  answer  was  an  agonized  whis- 
per. “I  realize — everything.” 

Stiffly  her  fingers  depressed  the 
white  key. 

Sharon  was  still,  by  the  control 
panel  when  the  lifeship  whistled 
down  through  the  upper  reaches  of 
Callisto’s  thin  atmosphere.  Nor  had 
Brant  moved.  He  felt  that  he  was 
living  a ghastly  anticlimax.  Thar- 
ner,  the  Martian,  groaned  and  sat 
up,  holding  in  manifest  pain  a bro- 
ken jaw.  A slight  tingling  of  the 
skin  signified  to  Brant  that  Callisto’s 
radiation  was  taking  effect  upon 
them.  Within  two  or  three  hours  it 
would  be  unnotieeable. 

The  girl’s  face  was  still  devoid  of 


color.  She  seemed  drained  of  vi- 
tality. The  paralysis  gun  lay  beside 
her  where  she  had  dropped  it,  and 
she  did  not  look  up  even  when  Brant 
approached  her. 

“I  have  always  done  what  I be- 
lieved had  to  be  done,”  he  said  in  a 
cold,  toneless  voice,  “without 
thought  for  myself,  without  count- 
ing the  cost  of  anything  but  failure 
to  do  the  thing.  Anyone  not  a fool 
must  realize  that  you  have  done  the 
same.  You’ve  left  your  life  behind 
you  as  I have  mine — but  of  your 
own  free  will.  You  would  have  been 
a fit  mate  for — the  overlord.” 

A faint  flush  touched  the  girl’s 
white  cheek. 

“Now  there  is  no  overlord,”  he 
went  on,  relentlessly.  “Even  Joseph 
Brant  cannot  rule  from  exile.  The 
overlordship  is  ended — I saw  to  it 
long  ago  that  no  other  man  could 
take  my  place.  The  Congress  will 
organize  a constitutional  govern- 
ment. Venus  will  sue  for  peace,  and 
Earth  and  Mars  will  grant  it.  You 
have  done  what  you  set  out  to  do. 
Whieh  of  us  was  right  only  the  future 
can  tell.  I hope  that  I was  wrong.” 

Her  slender  body  stiffened  at  the 
words. 

“I  pray  that  I was  wrong,”  he  re- 
peated. “That  is  a strange  thing  for 
Joseph  Brant  to  say.  Perhaps  it  is 
possible  because  he  is  now  only  a 
man,  because  he  can  speak  as  a man, 
and  not  as  the  overlord.” 

With  one  hand  under  her  chin  he 
tilted  her  head  so  that  their  eyes  met. 

“I  love  you,  Sharon  Tryst.  It  is 
the  one  thing  that  remains  to  me — 
but  you  can  take  it  away  with  a 
word.  You  told  me  that  you  were 
playing  a part — but  also  you  told 
me  once  you  loved  me.  I believed 
you  then.” 

“And  I,”  she  murmured,  “have 
never  lied  to  you,  Joseph  Brant — ” 


126 


Second  of  Two  Parts 

A world  political  crisis  is  bad — 
but  with  a madman  running  the 
show — J 

Illustrated  by  R.  Isip 


Synopsis  of  Part  1 

The  Submarine  Products  Cory,  so-called , 
but  under  the  vastly  different  social- 
economic  system  of  the  Forty-second  Cen- 
tury more  nearly  approaching  a.  govern- 
mental body  ruling  all  the  seas  of  Earth 
— has,  for  two  hundred  years , been  en- 
gaged in  a vastly  important . completely 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


127 


secret  experiment.  By  causing  artificial, 
controlled  mutations  they  have  succeeded 
in  producing  a mutated  type  of  man 
capable  of  living  in  and  breathing  water 
or  air  with  equal  success.  These — the 
Tritons — have  been  developed  on  Triton 
Reef,  a tiny  group  of  islands  in  the  deserted 
South  Pacific.  All  other  “ corporations ” — 
such  as  News  Exchange,  Planetary  Trans- 
port, et  cetera — have  co-operated  by  di- 
verting from  this  area for  two  centuries  any 
traffic  that  might  have  discovered  the  ex- 
periment. 

The  secrecy  was  vital,  lest  the  sudden 
discovery  of  this  widely  divergent  human- 
oid species  bring  a violent,  murderous  re- 
action from  unprepared  people.  A creature 
which  is  not  human,  but  near  human,  tends 
to  produce  a greater  revulsion  than  a wholly 
inhuman  being.  Until  that  instinctive  re- 
vulsion could  be  done  away  with,  secrecy 
was  utterly  necessary. 

The  time  has  nearly  come  for  release  of 
the  news.  The  preparation  of  the  world’s 
peoples  for  the  introduction  of  the  idea  has 
been  going  on  for  two  centuries;  the  idea 
now  seems  acceptable. 

And  now  trouble  breaks  on  Triton  Reef 
itself.  One  faction— the  Triton  elders — 
fears  release,  partly  because  the  other  fac- 
tion, the  younger  Tritons,  want  to  continue 
the  experiment  to  its  logical  conclusion. 
Tritons  are  altered  in  body,  but  no  muta- 
tion of  mental  powers  has  been  experi- 
mented'with;  the  younger  Tritons  want,  to 
apply  the  process — tectogenetics — to  devel- 
oping supermen.  The  elders,  led  by  Cy- 
morpagon,  force  the  younger  group  into  a 
single  pool  in  Triton  Reef.  Two — Cragstar 
and  Merling,  a young  Triton  man  and  girl 
— escape,  and  attempt  to  swim  the  thousand 
and  more  miles  to  Easter  Island,  where 
they  can  reach  communicators  to  notify 
Prime  Center,  the  central  government  of 
Earth,  of  the  situation.  Underestimating 
sea  distances,  they  are  exhausted  when  they 
stumble  on  the  submersible  cruiser  Kelonia, 
piloted  by  Raven  and  Topaz,  two  artists 
seeking  material  for  submarine  murals,  who 
have  disobeyed  instructions  by  coming  to- 
ward Triton  Reef,  curious  as  to  what  was 
in  that  supposedly  blank  area  of  sea. 

Prime  Center,  warned,  calls  Pater  Ver- 
vain, Drylander  representative  of  the  Cen- 
ter on  Triton  Reef.  Vervain  apparently 
lias  gone  mad,  for  he  reveals  that  he  in- 
tends to  rule  Earth  through  ruling  con- 
quering Tritons — ideas  credible  only  in  a 
madman  or  a dictator  of  two  thousand 
years  before J 

Vervain,  seemingly,  has  reached  this  de- 


cision after  being  taken  by  Cymorpagon, 
the  Triton  leader,  to  a secret  room  and 
shown  some  sort  of  evidence  Cymorpagon 
claims  to  have  which  proves  that  Prime 
Center  intends  to  destroy  all  Tritons.  Pre- 
viously, Vervain  had  thought  Cymorpagon 
himself  was  mad;  his  sudden  reversal  of 
behavior  puzzles  the  Tritons;  Prime  Center 
cannot  contact  him  after  he  makes  his 
ultimatum  and  destroys  the  transmitting 
equipment  on  Triton  Reef.  Prime  Center 
starts  sending  help  to  Triton  Reef. 

VIII. 

Another  vessel,  much  smaller 
than  the  Capricorn  and  flying  from 
the  northwest  at  a lower  level,  was 
also  bearing  down  on  Triton  Reef. 
She  was  the  News  Exchange  air 
cruiser  NE-6-137,  hurriedly  diverted 
in  mid-ocean  from  another  assign- 
ment by  the  Communications  Corp. 
Like  the  Capricorn  she  rode  upon 
a mobile  space  warp,  somewhat  as 
a surfboard  rides  the  crest  of  a roller: 
Her  passage  split  the  protesting  air 
with  a sustained  and  mournful  wail. 
She  drove  high  above  a surging  sea 
of  fog,  blinding  white  under  the  early 
afternoon  sun.  Her  nimble  shadow, 
edged  with  a rainbow  band,  pursued 
her  across  the  fog  floor  like  a racing 
porpoise. 

The  NE-6-137  had  established 
radio  contact  with  the  Kelonia — sur- 
face cruising  somewhere  under  the 
fog — and  was  now  reducing  speed  as 
she  rapidly  overhauled  the  submer- 
sible. Both  captain  and  pilot  were 
intent  upon  the  direction  finder. 

“We’ll  be  over  her  in  a minute,” 
said  the  pilot.  “She  reported  that 
the  fog  is  rising.” 

. “So?”  responded  the  captain. 

“Knock  it  down  with  the  precipi- 
tator and  we’ll  look  for  her.” 

The  pilot  pressed  a foot  treadle. 
The  fog  pavement  under  the  air 
cruiser  sagged  as  if  undermined,  and 
a circular  pit  extended  downward  un- 
til it  revealed  the  gray-green,  wave- 


128 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


crinkled  sea  at  the  bottom,  still 
foaming  from  the  torrent  of  rain 
which  had  fallen  into  it.  The  pit 
advanced  with  the  motion  of  the 
cruiser. 

“I’m  not  quite  clear  as  to  what 
we’re  going  after,”  remarked  the 
pilot  as  the  craft  sank  into  the  hole 
she  had  drilled.  “Something  about 
an  uncharted  reef — people  under  the 
sea.  What’s  it  all  about?” 

“It  seems  that  Prime  Center  and 
S.  P.  C.  have  had  some  sort  of  bi- 
ological experiment  under  way  and 
kept  it  dark  for  an  unbelievably  long 
time,”  replied  the  captain.  “Now 
they’re  ready  to  broadcast  it.  This 
seagoing  soup  tureen,  the  Kelonia, 
is  mixed  up  in  it  and  therefore  she 
becomes  news.” 

“There  she  is  now!”  exclaimed  the 
pilot. 

The  fog  swirled  in  and  closed 
above  the  NE-6-1S7  as  she  de- 
scended, and  now  she  floated  only 
two  hundred  feet  above  the  heaving, 
slate-gray  sea  at  the  center  of  a 
charmed  circle,  holding  the  fog  at 
bay  with  her  precipitators.  Beneath 
her  was  a wave-tossed  object  resem- 
bling a silver  dish  cover  surmounted 
by  a deformed  thimble— the  conning 
tower  and  upper  hull  of  the  Kelonia. 
The  latter  craft  was  already  the  tar- 
get of  three  televisors  trained  upon 
her  from  observation  hatches  along 
the  keel  of  the  NE-6-137.  The  oper- 
ators of  these  instruments,  unlike  the 
captain  and  pilot,  had  had  more  time 
for  perusal  and  study  of  the  pre- 
liminary Triton  Reef  data  with 
which  Narhajian  and  his  staff  were 
feverishly  bombarding  the  world. 
Consequently  they  were  more  or  less 
prepared  for  what  they  saw. 

The  observation  hatches  were 
shielded  by  inverted,  retractible 
domes  of  silicoid  wherein  the  oper- 
ators and  their  instruments  were  sus- 
pended in  gimbals.  A narrator  cen- 


tered the  cross  hairs  of  her  televisor 
field  on  the  Kelonia’ s conning  tower 
and  addressed  a far-flung  audience: 

“The  splashes  of  foam  around  the 
Kelonia  seem  to  be  made  by  a nu- 
merous company  of  swimming  crea- 
tures. At  the  moment  we  cannot 
identify  them.  We  doubt  that  they 
are  Tritons,  since  the  Kelonia  in- 
formed us — as  you  may  have  heard 
— that  she  has  only  two  aboard. 
These  may  be  porpoises  or  a herd  of 
seals.  No!  They  must  be  Tritons! 
Perhaps  you  caught  the  movement 
of  a swimmer’s  arm,  briefly  lifted 
from  the  water.  Mark  the  three 
clambering  out  upon  the  Kekmia’s 
deck.  They  are  definitely  Tritons! 
We  do  not  know  what  this  may 
signify.  Why  have  these  other 
Tritons  come  out  to  meet  the 
Kelonia?  Her  radio  has  become  si- 
lent.” 

On  the  bridge  of  the  NE-6-137  the 
captain  hurriedly  leveled  his  binocu- 
lars at  the  Kelonia  and  stared 
tensely. 

“What’s  this  thing  crawling  out  on 
deck?”  he  demanded.  “It — he — no, 
it’s  a girl — she’s  black  as  the  ace  of 
spades — or  is  she  purple?  Here’s  two 
more  coming!  Are  these  Tritons? 
I expected  some  sort  of  scaly  thing 
with  fins.  Why,  they’re  practically 
human,  and  not  bad-looking!  Some- 
thing queer  about  their  hair — seems 
to  be  squirming  all  the  time.  And 
if  I’m  not  delirious,  they  have  feelers 
like  confounded  giant  mosquitoes! 
They  sprouted  out  suddenly  on  their 
foreheads!” 

“Either  you’re  not  delirious,  or 
both  of  us  are,”  responded  the  pilot. 
“I  see  the  same  thing.  Can  they  live 
out  of  water?  Look  at  that!” 

This  concluding  exclamation  was 
inspired  by  the  spectacular  jets  of 
water  and  vapor  which  the  three 
Tritons  expelled  from  their  lateral 
gill  orifices. 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


129 


The  News  Exchange  vessel  de- 
scended until  the  domes  of  the  ob- 
servation hatches  barely  cleared  the 
wave  crests.  Heads  were  protruded 
from  portholes  and  a robust  voice 
cried,  “What!  No  mermaids?”  The 
captain  stepped  out  on  the  narrow 
bridge  deck  just  as  the  conning-' 
tower  hatch  of  the  Kelonia  was 
thrown  open  and  Raven  emerged 
therefrom,  followed  by  Cragstar. 

“Are  these  people  Tritons?”  in- 
quired the  captain,  leaning  over  the 
rail  and  addressing  Raven.  His 
burning  curiosity  made  mere  radio 
contact  seem  inadequate. 

“Yes,”  replied  one  of  the  three 
Triton  maidens  on  the  Kelonia’s 
deck.  “Are  you  disappointed?” 

“They  can  talk!”  exclaimed  the 
robust  voice. 

“We  understood  that  you  had  only 
two  aboard,”  continued  the  captain. 
“Where  did  you  pick  up  all  these 
others?” 

The  Kelonia,  was  completely  encir- 
cled by  a fringe  of  Tritons  who  had 
drawn  near  to  listen  and  now  clung 
to  her  sides. 

“They  shut  themselves  up  some- 
where in  Triton  Reef  and  then 
blasted  a way  out,”  replied  Raven. 
“Prime  Center  told  us  to  go  on  to 
the  Reef;  then  they  recalled  their 
instructions  and  told  us  to  wait. 
They  say  it  isn’t  safe.  Vervain,  the 
man  in  charge,  is  out  of  his  head  and 
running  around  with  some  kind  of 
weapon.  Prime  Center  sent  us  a 
transcription  of  what  Vervain  said 
to  the  Reef  Council,  and  we  made  a 
photographic  retranscription.  We’ve 
been  circling  around,  five  miles  from 
the  Reef,  waiting  for  the  Capricorn 
as  per  instructions.  Then  these 
others  found  us.  It  was  then  that 
we  stopped  sending.  They  hadn’t 
eaten  very  much  for  a couple  of  days, 
and  we  fed  them.  Then  we  told 
them  about  Vervain  and  they 


wouldn’t  believe  it.  Pive  of  them 
are  down  below  now — came  in 
through  the  air  lock — watching  our 
retranscription  being  run  through 
the  projector.  Are  you  going  on  to 
Triton  Reef?  What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  Vervain?” 

“We’re  going  on  to  Triton  Reef, 
but  Vervain  is  not  my  problem,”  re- 
plied the  captain.  “I  heard  some- 
thing about  his  blowing  up  thq  stereo 
plant.  We  took  on  some  stereo  ex- 
perts from  another  ship  who  have 
orders  to  repair  the  damage.  I hadn’t 
heard  about  Vervain’s  weapon.  That 
may  put  a crimp  in  our  plans  until 
the  Capricorn  arrives.  In  the  mean- 
time I would  advise  you  to  stay  put 
and  wait  for  the  Capricorn.” 

“Vervain,  or  the  elders,  or  both, 
may  refuse  to  admit  you  to  the 
Reef,”  remarked  Cragstar. 

“We’ll  consider  that  difficulty 
when  it  arises,”  responded  the  cap- 
tain. “If  your  Triton  friends  are 
agreeable,  we’ll  take  them  aboard 
and  they  can  make  their  radio  debut 
while  we  haul  them  back  to  their 
Reef.” 

As  a result  of  this  invitation  the 
NE-6-1S7  was  invaded  by  a Triton 
boarding  party  which  speedily  dis- 
rupted the  ship’s  discipline.  She 
hove  to  in  midair  while  the  captain 
granted  the  crew  temporary  leave  to 
.abandon  post's  which  they  had  al- 
ready deserted.  A tumultuous  mob 
surged  into  the  ship’s  broadcasting 
cabins  bearing  Tritons  on  their 
shoulders.  On  the  dark  side  of  the 
world,  sleepers  were  roused  by  tele- 
phone chimes,  listened  to  the  some- 
what incoherent  words  of  friends, 
spent  the  remainder  of  the  night  be- 
fore their  stereoscopic  telescreens. 
Commentators  . waxed  lyrical  amd 
metaphysical,  hailed  the  Tritons  as 
“the  vanguard  of  a new  epoch,”  de- 
scribed them  as  “another  eye 
through  which  the  human  mind  may 


130 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


see  the  Universe  in  a new  light,  an- 
other brain  wherewith  Man  may  ap- 
preciate and  admire.”  So  hectic  a 
broadcast  had  not  agitated  the  world 
since  the  return  of  the  first  warp- 
driven  space  cruisers,  bearing  a slab 
of  Martian  hieroglyphics. 

“Here  we  are,  left  in  the  lurch,” 
grumbled  Topaz  disgustedly  as  she 
listened  in  the  control  cabin  of  the 
Kelonia  to  the  broadcast  from  the 
NE-6-1S7.  “Merling  and  Cragstar 
and  the  others  are  going  on  to  Triton 
Reef,  while  we  potter  around  here 
and  wait  for  the  Capricorn.  By  the 
time  she  arrives,  all  the  excitement 
will  be  over.” 

“Our  instructions  are  to  wait,”  ad- 
monished Raven. 

“Prime  Center  didn’t  suppose  that 
the  News  Exchange  would  have  a 
ship  down  here  this  soon,”  Topaz 
asserted.  “They  just  said,  ‘Wait,’ 
and  forgot  about  us.  I’m  taking  the 
helm.” 

So  while  the  NE-6-137  floated 
aloft  and  the  images  of  affable  but 
astonished  young  Tritons  flashed 
across  the  telescreens  of  the  world, 
the  Kelonia  traversed  the  short  re- 
maining distance  to  Triton  Reef.  The 
warning  clang  of  an  obstacle  monitor 
on  her  port  bow  brought  her  to  an 
abrupt  halt.  The  booming  concus- 
sions of  surf  were  plainly  audible. 
The  navigators  peered  through  the 
forward  port. 

Five  hundred  feet  ahead  a phalanx 
of  ugly  crags — jagged,  sea-battered 
fang's  of  black  granite — loomed 
through  the  thinning  fog.  Tumbling 
torrents  of  foam  streamed  from  then- 
fissures.  One  grotesque  rock  forma- 
tion, pierced  by  an  eyelike  cavern, 
roughly  simulated  a colossal  rhi- 
noceros’ head. 

“This  is  the  place;  Cragstar  laid  a 
true  course,”  remarked  Raven,  con- 
sulting scribbled  pages  of  notes  on 


the  navigator’s  desk  beside  the  cal- 
culator. “He  says,  ‘Depth  at  Rhi- 
noceros Rock,  sixteen  fathoms,  in- 
creasing seaward.  Tunnel  under  the 
Rock  brings  you  to  portal  of  sub- 
mersible docks.  Smooth  bottom; 
crawl  in;  don’t  try  to  make  it  free- 
floating.  Tunnel  full  of  bad  currents. 
Nautilus  has  short-range  radio. 
Should  respond  if  Vervain  has  not 
wrecked  that  also.’  ” 

“Very  well;  we  shall  crawl,”  said 
Topaz,  and  the  Kelonia  slanted 
downward,  spouting  fountains  of 
bubbles  in  the  glare  of  her  bow 
floodlight.  She  found  a smooth,  dark 
bottom  which  rang  with  metallic 
resonance  under  her  caterpillar 
treads.  Before  her,  the  floodlight 
revealed  the  stark,  angular  but- 
tresses of  a black  cliff,  sparkling  with 
prisms  of  silica.  At  its  base  yawned 
a huge  semicircular  tunnel  mouth 
into  which  the  Kelonia  crept  crunch- 
ingly,  like  a metal  snail  entering,  a 
culvert.  This  passage  debouched 
onto  the  floor  of  an  oblong  lagoon 
from  which  no  means  of  exit  was  ap- 
parent. The  Kelonia  halted  before 
a sheer,  unbroken  wall  of  granite. 

“Dead-looking  place,”  commented 
Topaz.  “Where’s  the  portal?  See 
what  you  can  raise  on  the  radio.” 

“Someone  has  spotted  us,  I think,” 
responded  Raven,  looking  upward 
through  the  forward  port.  Three 
dots  of  pale-green  light  had  appeared 
halfway  up  the  face  of  the  granite 
wall.  Even  as  Raven  moved  toward 
the  radiophone  panel,  the  telescreen 
glowed  and  the  harassed  counte- 
nance of  Nautilus  appeared. 

“Ahoy  there,  you  in  the  turtle 
boat!  Who  are  you?  What  do  you 
want?”  inquired  the  Triton  appre- 
hensively. 

Raven  clicked  the  radio  transmis- 
sion switch. 

“This  is  Raven,  aboard  the 
Kelonia,”  he  replied.  “We  hope  to 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


131 


make  pictures  of  the  Reef.  There’s 
a News  Exchange  air  cruiser  a few 
miles  behind  us,  bringing  repairs  for 
your  stereo  plant  which  Vervain 
crippled.” 

“We  are  listening  to  her  broadcast 
now,”  responded  Nautilus.  “It’s  the 
most  confusing  thing  I ever  heard! 
What  are  we  to  believe?  Cymor- 
pagon  says  that  Prime  Center  has 
deceived  us;  Vervain  denies  it.  Then 
Vervain  agrees  with  him,  acts  like  a 
man  in  a dream.  Next,  Cymorpagon 
vanishes.  We  have  searched  his 
quarters  and  every  corner  of  the 
Reef,  but  he  is  nowhere.  Now  comes 
this  NE  cruiser,  which  picks  up  our 
young  rebels,  and  they  broadcast 
everything!  If  what  Cymorpagon 
feared  were  true,  the  world  should 
rise  against  them.  But  what  hap- 
pens? They  are  received  in  a whirl- 
wind of  acclaim!  Vervain  is  angered 
by  the  broadcast — says  this  seeming 
good  will  is  insincere — a trick  to  mis- 
lead us  until  we  are  scattered  abroad 
and  far  from  our  haven  in  the  Reef. 
And  what  is  this  talk  of  his  destruc- 
tion of  the  stereo  plant?  He  claims 
that  it  was  wrecked  by  Prime  Center 
with  some  sort  of  long-range  blast,  in 
an  attempt  on  his  life.” 

“Nonsense!”  retorted  Raven.  “He 
did  it  himself  with  a kind  of  gun. 
Was  there  no  one  with  him  when  he 
spoke  to  Prime  Center?” 

“He  insisted  on  being  alone  in  the 
stereo  plant.  He  locked  himself  in. 
It  is  true  that  he  has  a weapon  and 
is  patrolling  the  Reef  with  it.  The 
NE  broadcast  called  him  insane. 
How  can  that  be?  He  was  ever  the 
most  rational  of  men,  and  yet — ” 

“Hang  on  a moment  and  we’ll 
show  you  something,”  interrupted 
Raven.  “We  have  a transcription  of 
Vervain’s  interview  with  the  Reef 
Council.  Topaz,  go  below  and  bring 
the  cartridge.” 

The  “cartridge”  was  an  optical 

AST— -9 


by-product  of  the  ever-expanding 
science  of  warp  mechanics  which  had 
long  since  superseded  the  reel  of  film. 
When  this  manifesto  of  Triton  dic- 
tatorship had  been  duly  transmitted, 
Nautilus  exclaimed: 

“Incredible!  We  must  discuss  this 
with  you  in  person!  Stand  by  as  you 
are  while  I open  the  portal.  It  lies 
dead  ahead  of  you.” 

Raven  and  Topaz  pressed  their 
faces  against  the  forward  port  and 
stared  at  the  wall  of  granite. 

“What’s  happening?”  Raven  ejac- 
ulated. “The  ship’s  rising!” 

“It  isn’t!”  contradicted  Topaz. 
“The  cliff  is  moving.  A piece  of  it  is 
sliding  down.” 

A great  arched  crevice  had  opened 
in  the  face  of  the  cliff  and  the  in- 
closed segment  was  descending 
smoothly,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
a powerful  mechanical  drone.  A 
green-lighted  space  came  into  view 
beyond;  fhe  huge  gate  disappeared 
into  its  slot — a gaping  chasm — which 
in  turn  disappeared  with  a clank  as 
its  cover  slid  into  place. 

“Now  go  ahead,”  called  Nautilus. 

The  depths  beyond  the  portal 
were  so  brightly  lit  that  Topaz  ex- 
tinguished the  floodlight.  Directed 
by  the  radio  voice  of  Nautilus,  the 
craft  broke  surface  in  a rectangular 
basin  under  an  echoing,  vaulted  roof. 
The  mellow  submerged  lighting 
painted  the  roof  with  writhing  rip- 
ple shadows.  Metal-bound  packing 
cases  wei'e  piled  on  granite  quays 
which  projected  into  the  basin.  Two 
submersible  freighters  rode  at  their 
moorings. 

Nautilus’  voice  broke  off  in  mid- 
sentence and  his  image  vanished 
from  the  screen,  which  nevertheless 
continued  to  glow. 

“What’s  happened?  Now  you  see 
him,  now  you  don’t,”  complained 


132 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Topaz.  “No  one  in  sight  to  throw 
us  a line,  either.” 

Raven  threw  back  the  conning- 
tower  hatch  just  as  a door  slid  open 
halfway  down  the  line  of  wharves, 
emitted  a white  glare,  disgorged  a 
highly  vocal  throng.  The  voices 
echoed  clamorously  under  the  vault 
of  the  roof.  Various  small-wheeled 
mechanisms  were  trundled  out  of  the 
door.  Raven  was  dazzled  by  a glar- 
ing round  eye  of  light  which  was 
turned  upon  him.  There  were  shouts 
of  “Ahoy,  Kelonia!”  Several  Tritons 
detached  themselves  from  the  crowd, 
dived  into  the  pool  and  swam  swiftly 
toward  the  submersible,  churning  up 
clouds  of  luminous  foam.  The  sten- 
torian tones  of  Nautilus  issued  from 
a group  which  had  run  out  on  one  of 
the  nearer  wharves.  Under  his  eye 
the  Kelonia  nosed  into  h<jr  berth  and 
was  made  fast.  The  swimming 
Tritons,  led  by  Merling  and  Crag- 
star,  bounded  onto  the 1 Kelonia’ s 
deck,  splashing  and  spouting.  They 
dragged  Raven  and  Topaz  from  the 
conning  tower,  laughed  at  their 
amazement,  deposited  them  on  the 
wharf.  A vociferous  pack  of  News 
Exchange  narrators  and  interlocutors 
immediately  laid  hands  upon  them, 
ringed  them  with  mobile  floodlights, 
televisors,  microphones. 


“How  did  you  all  get  here?”  mar- 
veled Raven. 

“The  NE  ship  landed  up  above; 
there’s  a way  in  from  the  topside,” 
explained  Merling. 

“In  Triton  Reef  you  behold  one 
of  the  engineering  achievements  of 
the  age,”  declaimed  a tall  young  man 
wearing  the  black-and-white  cape  of 
the  News  Exchange.  “You  must 
realize  that  all  this  huge  chamber  is 
the  hollow  interior  of  an  artificial 
island.” 

He  gestured  expansively,  while 
obedient  light  beams  and  televisors 
followed  his  gesture. 

“Externally  it  appears  to  be  no 
more  than  a barren  peak  of  naked 
granite,”  he  continued.  “Yet  when 
we  landed  on  its  summit,  Cragstar 
had  only  to  touch  the  rocks  with  a 
little  instrument  which  he  carries  and 
they  opened  up  like  Aladdin’s  cave, 
disclosing  an  elevator  ready  to  take 
us  down.” 

Penetrating  feminine  accents 
floated  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd. 

“Show  us  this  unfortunate  trans- 
mitter which  was  so  foolishly  demol- 
ished,” requested  the  voice.  “We 
must  see  it  in  order  to  know  what 
is  needed.” 

“The  transmitter!  The  one  that 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


133 


Vervain  wrecked!”  exclaimed  Topaz. 
“We  must  see  that.  We  might  get 
pictures  of  Vervain.” 

“I  fear  that  you  must  be  advised 
not  to  approach  the  stereo  plant,” 
warned  the  tall  young  man.  “A 
diatrode  gun  in  irresponsible  hands 
is  not  a hazard  to  which  anyone 
should  be  needlessly  exposed.  For 
the  present  you  are  the  subject,  not 
the  maker,  of  pictures.  Let  us  first 
have  your  story.” 

“What  story?”  protested  Raven. 
“We  make  animated  murals,  and 
we’re  looking  for  material.” 

The  tall  young  man  opened  his 
mouth  to  reply,  but  was  silenced  by 
a crackling,  rending  din  like  the  first 
crash  of  a summer  thunderstorm. 
The  wharf  heaved  underfoot,  a flood- 
light toppled  over,  the  lights  in  the 
pool  went  out,  several  people  were 
thrown  off  their  feet.  A line  of 
miniature  whitecaps  raced  across 
the  pool  out  of  the  sudden  darkness 
into  the  zone  of  the  floodlights.  The 
rending  noise  faded  into  a prolonged, 
sullen  grinding,  and  ceased. 

“Another  earthshock!”  muttered 
Cragstar.  “Any  time,  however  short, 
that  we  remain  on  Triton  Reef  will 
be  too  long!” 

IX. 

Cragstar  and  the  stereo  mainte- 
nance crew  were  hurtled  from  the 
submersible  docks  to  the  anteroom 
of  Vervain’s  quarters  in  an  air-tight, 
bullet-shaped  car  through  a hydrau- 
lic tube  of  mirror  smoothness.  At 
the  end  of  its  flight  the  car  passed 
through  an  air  lock.  After  releasing 
himself  from  his  deep-cushioned  seat, 
mounted  on  recoil  plungers,  Cragstar 
turned  and  addressed  Aldarbrook, 
who  was  in  charge  of  the  mainte- 
nance crew. 

“You  haven’t  reconsidered?”  he 
inquired  dubiously.  “You  still  think 
it  advisable  to  make  this  direct  re- 


quest to  Vervain?” 

Aldarbrook  opened  the  carrying 
case  at  her  feet,  removed  and  donned 
a headband  bearing  pivoted  ear- 
phones and  stroboscopic  eyepieces. 

“I  shall  approach  him  as  if  he  were 
sane,”  declared  Aldarbrook,  “and  ask 
his  permission  to  repair  the  trans- 
mitter. Since  we  can’t  get  into  the 
stereo  plant  without  passing  through 
Vervain’s  rooms,  and  since  he  is  said 
to  be  there  now,  we  should  be  forced 
to  use  some  subterfuge  if  we  don’t 
tell  him  our  real  intentions.  Very 
probably  he  would  see  through  any 
pretext;  our  equipment  tells  plainly 
enough  why  we’re  here.  Then  he 
would  be  angry,  and  an  angry 
maniac  with  a weapon  would  be  a 
real  obstacle.  This  way,  I may  gain 
his  consent.  A blunt  refusal  is  the 
worst  I expect.  In  that  case  we  shall 
await  the  Caprie.iyrn.” 

“I  hope  it  works,”  remarked  Crag- 
star as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  car. 
He  stooped  and  went  out,  followed 
by  Aldarbrook  and  her  crew. 

“Great  triple  skew-torques!  What’s 
this?”  cried  Aldarbrook,  stopping 
short  on  the  threshold  of  Vervain’s 
conference  hall.  The  Dolphin  Pool 
circuit  had  been  restored  and  the 
place  was  now  filled  with  light. 

“This  is  Vervain’s  collection  of 
anatomical  models.  Do  you  find 
them  astonishing?”  responded  Crag- 
star. “You  see,  there  are  several 
ways  of  studying  anatomy.  Dissec- 
tion is  one  way.  The  making  of  ac- 
curate structural  duplicates  is  an- 
other. Some  of  these  are  orthodox 
human  models,  some  are  Tritons — 
students’  work.  The  others  repre- 
sent creatures  which  do  not  yet  exist 
— which  may  never  exist.” 

“Marvelous!  When  the  News  Ex- 
change narrators  see  this  they’ll  all 
float  away  in  a cloud  of  adjectives. 
Where’s  Vervain?  I thought  he  was 
here.” 


S84 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


At  opposite  ends  of  the  chamber 
the  green  uniformity  of  the  walls  was 
broken  by  patterns  like  great  targets 
— a ring  of  peacock  blue,  white  ring, 
blue  bull’s-eye.  The  insignia  of  Sub- 
marine Products  Corp. — the  crown 
and  trident — appeared  in  each  bull’s- 
eye,  embossed  in  white  metal.  Crag- 
star  indicated  these  twin  objects. 
Short  flights  of  steps  led  up  to  them. 

“He  may  be  in  there,  in  the  stereo 
room,”  said  Cragstar,  “or  in  the  labo- 
ratory.” 

The  outer  ring  of  the  door  at  which 
he  pointed  began  to  revolve  as  he 
spoke.  The  entire  circular  panel  re- 
ceded rapidly  into  the  wall  like  the 
breech  block  of  a huge  gun,  in  re- 
verse, exposing  a burnished  threaded 
casing  and  a lateral  opening.  A 
Triton  hurried  forth  from  this 
opening. 

“Kalamar!”  Cragstar  called. 
“Where  is  Vervain?” 

“In  the  culture  room,”  replied 
Kalamar.  “He  is  making  a;  pretense 
of  working.  It  is  pitiful,  like  the 
make-believe  of  a child.  He  has  for- 
gotten almost  everything.  Already 
he  has  destroyed  two  gene  cultures 
which  cost  him  days  of  labor  to 
isolate.  Who  are  these  people?” 
“We’re  from  Communications 
Central,”  replied  Aldarbrook.  “Can 
we  get  into  the  stereo  room?” 

“No;  it  is  locked  and  Vervain  has 
the  key.  He  also  has  his  weapon. 
I cannot  persuade  him  to  relin- 
quish it.” 

“There  you  have  it,  Cragstar.  We 
must  see  Vervain  first.” 

So,  ignoring  the  protests  of  the 
two  Tritons,  Aldarbrook  invaded 
Vervain’s  laboratory  and  preceded 
them  by  way  of  double-insulated 
doors  into  the  humid  darkness  of 
the  culture  room.  A hooded  crimson 
light  cast  a fiery  glow  on  Vervain’s 
impassive  features,  on  his  hands,  and 
on  the  small  apparatus  with  which 


he  was  busied — a Mephistophelean 
monochrome  floating  in  blackness. 
Beyond  him  a shadowy  multitude  of 
glass  ampules,  tier  above  tier,  threw 
back  dusky-red  gleams  where  the 
bloody  radiance  lay  along  their 
curved  sides. 

“What  a hothouse!  Ugh!”  mut- 
tered Aldarbrook.  “And  the  fumes! 
How  can  he  stand  it?” 

All  three  began  to  cough  and 
choke. 

“What  are  you  doing  now,  Pater 
Vervain?”  inquired  Kalamar  be- 
tween gasps. 

“I  am  boiling  some  water,”  replied 
Vervain,  slowly  raising  his  head.  Be- 
fore him  a little  glass  cup  reposed 
upon  a tripod,  glowing  like  a ruby; 
it  contained  a clear,  furiously  bub- 
bling liquid  into  which  he  had  in- 
serted a miniature  immersion  heater. 

“But  it  is  not  water,  Pater  Ver- 
vain!” protested  Kalamar  in  stran- 
gled tones.  “It  is  chloroform!” 
“Chloroform?”  repeated  Vervain 
with  a rising  inflection  but  a counte- 
nance of  wood.  “How  do  you  know 
that?  It  looks  like  water.” 

“By  the  odor,  the  fumes!  You  will 
asphyxiate  yourself!” 

“The  odor?  Of  course.  I am 
stupid.” 

Vervain  removed  the  heater  from 
the  cup  with  his  right  hand  and 
transferred  it  to  his  left  while  he 
reached  for  the  swatch.  The  hot 
metal  sizzled  in  his  grasp.  The  three 
onlookers  cried  out.  Vervain  deliber- 
ately hung  the  heater  in  its  rack  and 
nonchalantly  examined  his  burned 
hand — which  still  exhaled  tendrils  of 
vapor.  Then  he  realized  tardily  that 
he  had  heard  an  outcry  from  voices 
other  than  Kalamar’s.  He  groped 
beneath  the  worktable,  came  up  with 
the  diatrode  gun. 

“There  are  others  with  you,  Kala- 
mar! Who  are  they?” 

The  voice  was  threatening,  but 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


135 


' only  his  mouth  moved — a mere  part- 
ing of  the  lips.  Aldarbrook  experi- 
enced an  eerie  sensation  of  the  scalp 
and  spine.  She  moved  forward  into 
the  ruddy  light,  followed  by  Crag- 
star. 

“I  am  from  Communications  Cen- 
tral,” Aldarbrook  informed  Vervain. 
“We  felt  that  we  should  consult  you 
before  beginning  work  on  the  stereo 
transmitter.” 

“So  you  should,”  agreed  Vervain, 
lowering  the  gun  a trifle,  “inasmuch 
as  I have  the  key.” 

“Without  the  stereo  you  are  voice- 
less, a prisoner  in  Triton  Beef,”  con- 
tinued Aldarbrook.  “Is  that  your 
ideal  for  the  future  leader  of  a world 
empire?” 

“The  earthquake  shall  be  my 
voice,”  declared  Vervain,  flourishing 
the  gun.  “When  five  hundred  miles 
of  South  American  coast  founders  in 
the  sea,  it  will  be  time  for  me  to 
speak.” 

“Prime  Center  will  call  it  a natural 
catastrophe,”  argued  Aldarbrook. 
“How  will  you  deny  it?  We  must 
begin  now.  And  this  little  weapon 
of  yours — is  it  exactly  suitable  for 
one  who  wields  earthquakes?” 

“There  is  something  in  what  you 
say,”  conceded  Vervain  thoughtfully, 
resting  the  gun  on  the  worktable. 

“With  the  stereo,  you  might  have 
a direct  beam  connection  with  Cen- 
tral,” Aldarbrook  went  on.  “The 
whole  world  could  hear  your  com- 
mands, see  your  face.  Of  course,  if 
you  care  to  appear  before  it  carrying 
a mere  copy  of  a weapon  two  thou- 
sand years  old,  that’s  your  affair.” 

Vervain  laid  the  diatrode  gun  on 
the  worktable,  folded  his  arms,  and 
appeared  to  meditate. 

The  door  of  the  culture  room 
opened  a few  inches,  the  silhouette 
of  a head  appeared  in  the  opening, 
and  a narrow  beam  of  light  played 


over  the  group  at  the  worktable. 
The  head  and  the  beam  withdrew 
quickly,  and  before  the  door  closed 
again  the  owner  of  the  head  ad- 
dressed some  second  person  in  a loud 
whisper: 

“It’s  Vervain!  In  there!  Get 
everyone  out  of  here!” 

“Who  was  that?”  exclaimed  Ver- 
vain, seizing  the  gun  and  wheeling 
toward  the  door.  He  collided  with 
some  object  which  toppled  over  with 
a crash  of  glassware,  then  strode  into 
the  laboratory  with  the  others  at  his 
heels.  He  entered  just  in  time  to  see 
the  flutter  of  a black-and-white  cape 
as  it  vanished  into  the  passage  lead- 
ing to  the  conference  hall.  Treading 
with  elephantine  heaviness,  he  pur- 
sued it  gun  in  hand. 

One  of  Aldarbrook ’s  crew  came 
forth  from  a temporary  retreat  be- 
hind a reagent  case,  spoke  tersely  as 
they  ran  after  Vervain: 

“We  tried  to  open  the  door  of  the 
stereo  room.  Squad  of  broadcasters 
came  in  another  way — not  by  the 
tube.  All  over  the  place  before  we 
knew.  Someone  told  them — Vervain 
— on  the  other  side  of  the  Reef. 
Doubted  he  was  here.  Two  of  them 
came  in  to  look.” 

When  Vervain  appeared  on  the 
stairs  leading  to  the  laboratory,  two 
mobile  televisors  were  already  re- 
treating from  the  hall  on  noiseless 
wheels,  in  reverse,  toward  the  portal 
whence  they  had  come.  Their  oper- 
ators continued  to  broadcast,  un- 
daunted, as  they  retreated.  A third 
televisor  in  the  other  end  of.  the 
chamber  was  still  engaged  in  a sort 
of  Cook’s  Tour  Of  Vervain’s  ana- 
tomical exhibits;  the  two  scouts  who 
had  discovered  Vervain  in  the  cul- 
ture room  were  sprinting  toward  it. 
The  remainder  of  Aldarbrook’s  crew 
were  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  which 
they  had  just  commenced  to  ascend. 

Vervain  shouted  “Halt!v  in  a voice 


136 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


of  tremendous  volume.  A shouting 
mask  could  have  been  little  more 
startling.  The  operator  of  the  third 
televisor  glanced  over  his  shoulder, 
deftly  swerved  into  the  convenient 
haven  of  the  anteroom  doorway. 
Here  he  did  an  about-face  and 
trained  the  instrument  on  Vervain. 

“In  order  to  dispel  any  doubts 
which  you  may  harbor  as  to  my  in- 
tended use  of  this  weapon,”  boomed 
Vervain,  “I  shall  give  you  a demon- 
stration. After  that,  you  may  have 
thirty  seconds  for  your  departure. 
You  may  take  the  body  with  you.” 

He  leveled  the  gun  at  the  televisor 
operator  in  the  anteroom  door  and 
discharged  a globe  of  humming  blue 
fire.  If  he  had  been  more  versed  in 
historical  knowledge,  he  would  have 
known  that  the  slow  missiles  of  the 
diatrode  gun  were  intended  primarily 
for  use  against  stationary  electrical 
war  machines,  not  human  beings  or 
other  moving  targets.  Also  he  would 
have  known  that  the  trigger  should 
have  been  depressed  until  the  globe 
found  its  mark,  since  the  ionizing 
guide- ray  was  thereby  maintained. 
As  it  was,  the  globe  drifted,  leisurely 
across  the  chamber,  hesitated  above 
an  unfinished,  one-armed  manikin 
with  closed  eyes  and  the  serene  ex- 
pression of  a Buddha,  and  drifted 
down  upon  its  head. 

The  globe  pirouetted,  enveloped 
the  head  with  a ghostly  nimbus,  van- 
ished as  if  absorbed.  The  figure  was 
convulsed.  It  threw  aloft  its  one 
ann,  reeled  over  sideways,  flung  itself 
about  the  floor  like  a decapitated 
chicken,  rolled  to  the  foot  of  the 
laboratory  stairs  &s  Cragstar  and  the 
others  appeared  behind  Vervain. 
There  it  threshed  its  limbs  in  a final 
spasm,  its  eyes  and  mouth  flew  open, 
and  it  lay  motionless  and  staring. 

“Revolting!”  shuddered  Aldar- 
brook. 

“It  was  not  alive,”  soothed  Crag- 


star,  “but  very  cunningly  made, 
down  to  the  minutest  muscles.” 

Kalamar  stepped  to  Vervain’s  side, 
laid  a hand  on  his  arm,  spoke  a few 
quiet  words.  Vervain  peered  closely 
at  an  indicator  on  the  gun  butt  and 
announced: 

“I  have  one  shot  left.  I must  re- 
charge. I advise  no  one  to  stand  in 
my  way.” 

The  operator  of  the  third  televisor 
— although  poised  for  a leap — had 
not  left  the  saddle  of  his  machine. 
Consequently  all  three  lenses  fol- 
lowed Vervain’s  stiff  march  down  the 
conference  hall  to  the  door  of  the 
stereo  room.  Half  a billion  watchers 
of  the  telescreens,  on  Earth  and  else- 
where, relaxed  briefly.  As  Vervain 
mounted  the  steps  he  stumbled, 
struck  one  knee  against  the  edge  of 
a step  with  a sickening  crack.  It 
seemed  a crippling  blow,  yet  he  rose 
awkwardly,  mounted  the  remaining 
steps  without  difficulty. 

“The  man  seems  invulnerable!” 
breathed  Aldarbrook. 

Kalamar  was  regarding  the  hand 
which  he  had  laid  on  Vervain’s  arm, 
his  eyes  wide  with  the  dawn  of  a 
fantastic  surmise. 

“Invulnerable?”  whispered  Kala- 
mar. “Is  he  even  human?” 

X. 

A rotary  portal  opened  at  the 
base  of  an  obsidian  bluff  and  Merling 
came  forth,  followed  by  Raven  and 
Topaz. 

“This  is  Sea  Horse  Pool,”  said 
Merling.  “Here  we  are  below  sea 
level,  under  water,  and  above  water 
at  the  same  time.” 

They  stood  ankle-deep  in  a turf 
of  dense,  green  mossy  growth  border- 
ing a beach  of  white  coral  sand  and 
shell  fragments.  The  beach  sloped 
down  to  an  irregular  lagoon,  half  a 
mile  across,  still  greater  in  length. 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


13? 


ringed  by  the  obsidian  bluffs.  The 
waters  were  a placid  sheet  of  light, 
illumined  from  below,  disturbed  only 
by  the  bubbling  of  aerating  jets.  And 
above — not  sky,  but  a roof  of  steel 
and  silicoid,  arched  and  groined, 
supported  by  a rank  of  mighty  pil- 
lars which  rose  from  the  green-lit 
depths.  And  surging  above  the 
glassy  roof — surf  and  green  water! 
A broad  shelf  around  each  pillar  at 
lagoon-level  gave  root-hold  to  luxuri- 
ant thickets  of  broad-leaved  plants 
and  blue-flowered  giant  creepers 
which  climbed  the  columns  ivy- 
fashion. 

“They  must  be  growing  in  a salt- 
water soil,”  remarked  Raven,  eying 
these  growths.  “Did  your  biotech- 
nicians make  them  also?” 

“Yes.  These,  and  many  things 
which  grow  down  under,”  Merling 
responded. 

“Where  are  the  children?”  Topaz 
inquired. 

“Somewhere  below.  It  is  strange 
that  none  of  them  are  on  the  beach. 
It  is  their  free  time — They  come 
now!” 

A swarm  of  glistening  black  bodies 
rose  rocketlike  from  the  depths, 
broke  surface  noisily,  drove  toward 
the  beach  with  the  speed  of  otters, 
leaving  wakes  of  foam. 

“All  these  are  between  fifteen  and 
eight  years  of  age,”  explained  Mer- 
ling. “Those  younger  have  a pool  of 
their  own,  with  closer  supervision.” 

The  Triton  children  leaped  upon 
the  beach  in  a shower  of  spray  and 
hissing  water  jets,  became  vocal 
when  they  had  emptied  their  gill 
chambers. 

“Old  Eight-Arms!  Dacna  saw  him 
fall  in  last  night,  when  the  roof 
cracked  in  the  quake  and  the  sea 
leaked  in!” 

“We  looked  after  they  fixed  the 
roof  and  we  couldn’t  find  him!  We 
thought  Dacna  saw  a bunch  of  kelp!” 


“An  octopus?”  exclaimed  Merling. 
“In  the  pool?  Have  you  seen  it?” 
“Yes!  At  the  deep  end,  among  the 
tall  cup  sponges!” 

“He  was  floating  near  the  bottom. 
We  thought  he  was  dead.” 

“Murex  pinched  him  and  he 
squirmed!” 

“He  swims  slowly.  He  is  hurt.” 
“Is  everyone  out  of  the  pool?” 
Merling  asked. 

“No.  Some  are  asleep  in  the  for- 
est. Dacna  went  to  tell  them.” 
“You  had  best  go  to  your  homes 
until  the  pool  is  searched,”  advised 
Merling.  “Who  is  pool  warden?” 
“Dacna  is  first;  I’m  second 
warden,”  announced  Murex.  “I’ll 
telephone  Pater  Vervain  from  my 
home — ” He  checked  himself, 
clearly  distressed.  “But  I can’t.  I’ll 
call  Kalamar.” 

Raven  and  Topaz  exchanged  sig- 
nificant glances. 

“It’s  a take!”  declared  Raven. 
“We  can  do  this.  How  big  is  this 
octopus?” 

“A  monster!  His  arms  are — so 
long.” 

Murex  made  two  furrows  in  the 
sand  with  his  toe,  indicating  a length 
of  about  five  feet. 

“That  isn’t  very  big,”  Topaz  com- 
mented. “We’ve  killed  bigger  ones 
than  that  around  the  Antilles.  You 
may  do  it  this  time,  Raven.  I’ll 
shoot  the  pictures.” 

“What  are  you  intending?”  de- 
manded Merling. 

“You  needn’t  send  for  your  official 
exterminators — which  I suppose  is 
what  you’re  about  to  do,”  answered 
Raven.  “We’d  rather  do  the  deed — 
and  record  it  in  pictures.  Our  warp 
armor  is  protection  enough.  Just 
show  us  the  place.” 

The  device  traditionally  known  as 
armor  was  in  fact  a one-piece,  hooded 
diving  suit  of  flexible  alloy  mesh  em- 
bedded in  pliant,  transparent  ma- 


138 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


terial.  A zipper  extended  from  the 
jointed  metal  belt  to  a locking  at- 
tachment on  the  forehead,  under  the 
light  disk.  The  suit  was  equipped 
with  a voice  stereophone  and  an  aer- 
ophore — whose  “gill  pump”  was 
driven  by  a vortex  motor  the  size  of 
a man’s  thumb — both  mounted  in  a 
boxlike  knapsack.  Raven  and  Topaz 
had  returned  to  the  Kelonia  and 
donned  garments  of  this  nature  after 
finding  that  they  could  not  accom- 
pany Aldarbrook.  Up  to  the  time  of 
their  descent  into  Sea  Horse  Pool  the 
zippers  of  the  suits  were  partially 
open  and  the  hoods  thrown  back. 

Curiosity  as  to  the  means  whereby 
the  obviously  unarmed  Raven  pro- 
posed to  dispatch  an  octopus,  to- 
gether with  his  equally  obvious  un- 
concern, led  Merling  to  consent  to 
the  attempt. 

“We  have  done  it  with  a pair  of 
pliers,”  Raven  observed  with  inten- 
tional vagueness,  “but  I’d  rather  use 
my  gloves.” 

When  the  zippers  of  the  suits  were 
closed  and  locked,  the  locking  ac- 
tivated a warp-generating  apparatus 
in  the  belt.  Both  suits  were  in- 
stantly incased  in  a third-order  space 
waip  whose  presence  was  not  evident 
until  the  wearers  were  submerged, 
whereupon  it  could  be  seen  that  they 
were  enveloped  in  a film  of  air — a 
bubble  sheath  whose  surface  main- 
tained an  invariable  distance  from 
the  alloy  mesh.  It  conformed  faith- 
fully to  the  movements  and  flexures 
of  the  latter,  rigidly  resisted  pres- 
sure and  impact  from  without,  and 
was  almost  frictionless — a paradoxi- 
cal combination  of  properties  which 
only  the  mathematics  of  warp  me- 
chanics could  reconcile.  The  vents 
of  the  aerophore  and  steel  corruga- 
tions on  the  palms  of  the  gloves  and 
the  soles  of  the  boots  projected 
through  this  super-slippery  warp  sur- 


face. A movie  camera  the  size  of  a 
large  watch  was  mounted  crosswise 
on  the  left  wrist  of  the  garment;  its 
cartridge  had  a capacity  equivalent 
to  eight  hundred  feet  of  film. 

Merling  led  the  way  into  the 
lagoon,  wading  a broad  shallow 
which  ended  in  a drop  of  four 
fathoms.  Raven  and  Topaz  joined 
hands  and  stepped  off  after  Merling, 
who  swam  downward  with  the  sup- 
pleness of  a seal.  There  was  more 
light  beneath  the  surface  than  above; 
they  seemed  not  to  be  sinking 
through  water  but  through  a lumi- 
nous green  atmosphere  in  a swirl  of 
quicksilver.  They  alighted  on  a 
floor  of  white  sand  among  the 
lavender  domes  of  brain  corals.  Be- 
fore them  a meadow  of  fern-fronded 
algas  sloped  into  glowing  green  pro- 
fundities. The  fronds  bowed  with 
lazily  rippling  unanimity  before  a 
gentle  current. 

The  two  air-sheathed  figures, 
veiled  in  gray  metallic  gauze, 
plodded  into  the  lower  reaches  of  the 
gorge  which  traversed  the  center  of 
the  pool,  while  Merling  looped  and 
circled  before  them.  She  led  them 
into  the  verdant  dimness  of  an  algal 
forest — -towering  spires  tufted  with 
olive-green  bristles.  Giant  fawn- 
colored  sea  horses,  russet-flecked, 
drifted  through  the  foliage. 

In  a clearing  where  flower-headed 
marine  worms  grew  among  man-high 
sponges — bulging  goblets  of  maroon 
velvet — Merling  held  up  eight  fin- 
gers, pointed  among  the  bases  of  a 
sponge  cluster. 

An  inert  brick-red  tentacle, 
splotched  with  dull  gray,  lay  across 
their  path.  Raven  stooped,  seized  it, 
brought  the  feebly-writhing  octopus 
from  its  retreat  with  a vigorous  jerk, 
inspected  the  bulbous  body. 

“Bad  wound,”  grunted  Raven  into 
his  stereophone.  “Must  have  been 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


189 


In  a whirl  of  abrupt  fury,  Vervain  hurled 
the  massive  iconoscope  camera,  spun  and  tied. 


injured  when  it  fell  in.” 

“That  half-dead  thing!  I wouldn’t 
waste  any  part  of  a cartridge  on  it,” 
said  Topaz  scornfully. 

Raven  bestrode  the  mottled  body, 
interlaced  the  fingers  of  his  corru- 
gated gloves,  made  a steel-ridged  vise 
of  his  hands.  He  pinched  up  a fold 
of  octopus  skin  in  the  jaws  of  that 
vise,  between  the  creature’s  eyes, 


made  sure  of  the  presence  of  a hard 
kernellike  body  within  the  fold  of 
skin,  then  squeezed  his  hands  to- 
gether. There  was  a sharp  snap  like 
the  cracking  of  a nut,  and  the  octo- 
pus gave  a final  twitch  and  was  still. 

“Cracked  the  big  ganglion,”  con- 
cluded Raven.  “That  finishes  it.” 

Merling  swooped  before  them  agi- 
tatedly, pointed  into  the  algal  for- 


140 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


est,  held  up  eight  fingers. 

“What!  Another?  Warden  Dacna 
missed  one,”  was  Raven’s  comment. 
“Perhaps  they  fell  in  together.” 

This  second  cephalapod  half 
floated,  half  walked  from  its  leafy 
concealment,  malevolently  alive  and 
in  the  full  fury  of  its  living  colors. 
The  word  “fury”  is  used  advisedly. 
Its  arms — which  subsequent  meas- 
urement proved  to  be  seven  feet  in 
length — flamed  with  a scarcely  de- 
scribable  hue,  an  unearthly  hybrid 
color  between  vivid  salmon-pink  and 
burning  orange,  with  an  overtone  of 
blue.  They  were  dappled  with  a 
black  which  somehow  surpassed 
black — a blackness  infused  with  an 
obscure  vibration  of  color.  The  suc- 
tion disks  were  cups  of  ivory.  On 
the  swollen  body  the  color  scheme 
was  reversed — black  dappled  with 
flame.  Its  eyes  were  disks  of  moon- 
stone. 

Merling  retired  to  a discreet  dis- 
tance. 

“Beautiful!”  breathed  Topaz,  in- 
tently squinting  through  her  object 
finder.  “I’m  sorry  we  have  to  kill  it. 
Wish  we  had  a better  light.  My 
headlight — that  will  brighten  things 
up  a bit.  Don’t  rush  things.  Raven. 
Creep  up  on  it.  Crouch.  That’s  it! 
Wonderful!  Two  wrestlers — man 
and  octopus — feinting  for  the  first 
hold!  You’ve  got  the  idea.  Bother! 
It  won’t  wait!” 

The  octopus  was  in  no  mood  to 
embellish  its  performance  with  the 
artistic  niceties  of  feint  and  parry  as 
conceived  by  Topaz.  Under  the 
beam  of  her  light  disk  it  reared  up 
on  its  arms,  a death’s-head  on  stilts, 
then  hurled  itself  on  Raven,  en- 
veloped him  in  a.  rippling  fabric  of 
tentacles.  The  squirming  mass 
rolled  to  and  fro,  rose  and  sank,  up- 
rooted some  of  the  smaller  sponges. 

“I  can’t  see  you,  Raven,”  Topaz 


called.  “This  is  nothing  but  octopus. 
Stick  out  a hand  or  something.” 

“Give  me  time,”  answered  Raven. 
“I’m  just  getting  myself  oriented.” 

Although  the  octopus  sought  fu- 
riously to  secure  a grip  upon  the 
ultra-smoothness  of  the  warp  sur- 
face, Raven  slid  and  twisted  in  its 
grasp  like  a lubricated  roller  bearing. 
His  head  and  one  arm  were  thrust 
deliberately  from  between  the  bases 
of  two  tentacles  below  the  eyes  of 
his  antagonist.  A puff  of  inky  fluid 
darkened  the  water. 

“It’s  throwing  a screen,”  admon- 
ished Topaz.  “Roll  out  of  it,  Raven. 
It  spoils  the  definition.” 

“You  might  speak  to  this  bit  of 
shark  bait  about  it,”  suggested 
Raven.  “It’s  the  one  who’s  do- 
ing it.” 

He  now  had  both  arms  free  and 
was  eye  to  eye  with  his  opponent. 
Its  beak  gnawed  madly  at  the  warp 
covering  his  chest.  They  rolled  over, 
Raven  vanished,  and  the  mollusk 
ejected  another  cloud  while  Topaz 
fumed.  The  roll  carried  them  be- 
yond the  cloud  and  Raven  came  to 
view  again.  His  hands  were  clasped 
together  and  in  position  to  crack  the 
vital  ganglion. 

In  whatever  crypt  of  dark  ferocity 
that  may  serve  as  the  mind  of  an 
octopus  there  now  dawned  a fearful 
realization  that  Raven  was  no  or- 
dinary victim  to  be  rent  apart  and 
gulped  down  at  leisure.  It  suddenly 
unwound  its  tentacles.  The  fold  of 
skin  was  jerked  from  Raven’s  grasp. 

“No  you  don’t!”  he  cried,  seized  a 
stalked,  moonstone  eye  with  one 
hand,  thrust  the  other  hand  between 
the  jiws  of  its  snapping  beak.  His 
arm  disappeared  to  the  shoulder 
while  his  steel-ridged  glove  tore 
through  its  vitals,  sought  and  found 
and  crushed  its  cold  molluscan  heart. 
Both  contestants  were  swallowed  up 
in  a gushing  cloud  of  octopus  ink. 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


141 


Raven  emerged  from  the  cloud, 
trailing  inky  streamers. 

“I  cracked  the  ganglion  also,  just 
to  make  sure,”  he  remarked.  “The 
Triton  Reef  octopus  squad  can  take 
away  the  remains.” 

“The  action  was  good,  but  it  didn’t 
last  long  enough,”  Topaz  com- 
mented. 

The  pool  was  now  briefly  suffused 
with  scarlet  light,  then  returned  to 
its  normal  state  of  green  radiance. 

“What  was  that  for?”  Raven  won- 
dered. 

“A  signal,  perhaps.” 

The  illumination  now  blinked 
rapidly. 

“Emergency  code.  The  lights  are 
talking.  It  was  a signal.” 

“Capricorn  noiv  over  the  Reef" 
blinked  the  lights.  “All  Tritons  will 
go  to  their  places.  Prepare  to  em- 
bark.” 

The  message  was  repeated  twice. 
XI. 

The  half-billion  telescreen  au- 
dience, its  numbers  now  augmented 
by  an  additional  million  or  so  as 
various  less  essential  activities 
throughout  the  world  slowed  down 
or  came  to  a temporary  halt,  shifted 
their  cramped  limbs  and  viewed  the 
descent  of  the  Capricorn  from  her 
all-but-airless  height.  They  saw  it 
presented  from  three  viewpoints, 
artfully  interwoven  in  changing  se- 
quence from  continuous  transcrip- 
tions relayed  and  fitted  together  by 
the  narrative  editor  aboard  the 
NE-6-137.  There  were  News  Ex- 
change televisors  aboard  the  Capri- 
corn also.  They  looked  down  upon 
an  expanse  of  fog  like  a pavement 
of  blue-shadowed  gilded  wool;  saw 
it  ripped  aside  from  the  face  of 
Triton  Reef  by  the  Capricorn's 
mighty  precipitators  as  if  by  the 
impatient  gesture  of  an  invisible 


titanic  hand.  They  saw  the  fog- 
bedewed  shield  deck  of  the  NE-6- 
137;  saw  it  vanish  in  a blinding  de- 
luge of  rain;  saw  the  blue  heavens 
open  and  reveal  the  Capricorn — a 
floating,  gold-plated  projectile  re- 
flecting the  westerly  sun  with  molten 
brilliance.  From  a televisor  mounted 
by  the  outer  elevator  portal  of  the 
submersible  docks  they  saw  the 
Capricorn  slide  disdainfully  along- 
side the  News  Exchange  cruiser — 
golden  whale  and  silver  minnow. 

The  navigation  cabin  of  the  Capri- 
corn was  in  her  forekeel.  The  com- 
mander of  that  vessel  was  now  fully 
aware  of  the  nature  of  his  mission 
and  had  forgotten  his  initial  griev- 
ance over  the  interrupted  schedule. 
Craving  the  satisfaction  of  direct 
contact  via  the  unaided  human  voice, 
he  hailed  the  NE-6-137  from  an  open 
air  lock  with  pretended  ignorance 
and  a brusqueness  which  had  become 
habitual. 

“Ahoy,  you  dust-breathing  hedge- 
hogs!” he  shouted.  “What  sort  of 
a layout  is  this?  I’m  told  that  you 
have  here  five  hundred  odd  refugee 
sea  nymphs  who  want  to  be  taken 
off  their  island  without  getting  their 
feet  wet.  Can’t  they  swim?  And 
no  stereo!  Where  are  your  Com- 
munications experts?  Did  they  for- 
get their  tools?” 

“Well,  well!  If  it  isn’t  the  Capri- 
corn, practically  dragging  her  belly 
on  the  ground!”  replied  the  News 
Exchange  officer  in  like  vein.  “Don’t 
ask  me  for  information;  I’m  just  a 
bystander.  You  have  your  orders, 
so  get  on  with  the  business.” 

The  dock  chamber  re-echoed  with 
the  clangor  and  bustle  incident  to 
the  embarkation  of  the  Tritons  when 
Raven  and  Topaz,  intent  on  being 
at  the  focus  of  activity,  returned 
thereto  with  Merling — who  excused 
herself  to  locate  Cragstar.  The  two 
submersible  freighters  which  they 


142 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


had  seen  on  their  arrival  were  trans- 
ferring the  heaped-up  cases  on  the 
docks  to  the  Capricorn  via  the  sub- 
marine portal  and  outer  lagoon.  The 
Tritons  were  being  taken  aboard  by 
way  of  the  elevator.  On  its  down- 
ward trips  the  elevator  disgorged  suc- 
cessive loads  of  men  and  parapher- 
nalia from  the  Capricorn. 

The  na  vigators  of  the  Kelonia,  still 
garbed  in  their  warp  suits,  but  with 
the  hoods  open,  elbowed  their  way 
to  the  door  of  the  elevator  in  time  to 
see  the  emergence  of  a party  simi- 
larly clad,  save  that  the  suits  were 
not  equipped  with  aerophores  or 
cameras  and  were  provided  with 
oxygen  tanks.  Topaz  clutched  a 
sleeve. 

“What  goes  on?”  she  inquired. 
“Why,  I saw  you  in  the  broadcast 
not  long  ago,”  exclaimed  the  one  ad- 
dressed. “This?  It’s  an  industrial 
warp  suit.  They  use ’em  in  chemical 
works  and  such  places.  We’re  going 
after  Vervain.  He  can  bombard  us 
as  much  as  he  likes.” 

“Stand  aside,  please,”  said  a 
Triton  at  their  elbow.  “We’re  mov- 
ing the  loading  conveyor  to  this 
pier.” 

They  dodged  the  moving  metal 
framework  which  whirred  toward 
them,  suspended  from  overhead  rails, 
and  the  warp-suit  detachment  was 
lost  in  the  crowd. 

Another  party  of  Tritons  entered 
the  elevator.  Raven  caught  frag- 
ments of  conversation. 

“ — -temporary  quarters  at  Great 
Barrier.  I’m  staying  there  when 
weVe  built  the  permanent  . . . 
search  party  hunting  Cymorpagon 
. . . Florida  Keys  are  my  choice—-” 
When  the  elevator  returned,  it  dis- 
charged a small  rotor-driven  truck 
with  a load  of  gas  cylinders  marked 
in  glaring  red  letters: 


“Lethegen!  That’s  an  idea,”  ob- 
served Raven.  “I  suppose  it’s  for 
Vervain.  But  if  they’re  going  to  use 
lethegen,  then  why  do  they  need 
warp  suits?” 

“They  can’t  just  turn  it  loose  any- 
where,” Topaz  pointed  out.'  “They 
might  meet  Vervain  where  they 
wouldn’t  want  to  use  lethegen.  There 
might  be  other  people  around.” 

Another  trip  by  the  elevator 
brought  down  another  load  of  cylin- 
ders, this  time  lettered  in  white: 

ANTIVECTOR  GAS 

“I’m  beginning  to  understand,” 
said  Raven.  “First  they  get  him 
cornered.  Then  one  gas,  then  the 
other.  Where  are  they  taking  it?” 

“Follow  it  and  see.” 

The  truck  led  them  to  one  of  the 
termini  of  the  Triton  Reef  hydraulic 
tube  transit  system.  Three  bullet 
cars  lay  in  their  cradles  by  the  load- 
ing platform.  Topaz  stooped  to  en- 
ter the  passenger  conpartment  of  the 
nearest  car,  found  her  way  blocked 
by  a man  in  a waip  suit. 

“Oh,  hello!  I saw  you  in  the  broad- 
cast,” she  was  greeted  by  this  indi- 
vidual. “No.  You  can’t.  I’m  sorry, 
but  those  are  orders.  We  don’t  know 
what  else  Vervain  may  have  in  addi- 
tion to  the  diatrode  gun,  and  we  can’t 
risk  having  superfluous  spectators 
around.  Yes,  I see  your  warp  suits, 
but  I’m  not  running  this  undertak- 
ing. The  answer  is — No!” 

The  two  retired  for  a hurried  con- 
ference. 

“The  third  car,  down  at  the  end — 
no  one  seems  to  be  watching  it,” 
remarked  Raven,  pointing  with  a 
gloved  finger. 

They  found  the  door  of  the  pas- 
senger compartment  locked. 

“Try  the  freight  door,  and  hurry!” 
hissed  Topaz. 


LETHEGEN!  CAUTION! 


148 


The  metal  panel  slid  back  easily, 
revealed  the  dark  interior  of  the 
chamber  in  the  tail  of  the  vehicle. 

“Plenty  of  room,”  announced 
Raven.  “We  can  cushion  ourselves 
with  this  packing.” 

The  chamber  was  half  filled  with 
fluffy,  cottonlike  material. 

“I’ll  make  a thick  pad  of  it  against 
the  rear  wall  and  lie  with  my  back 
against  it,”  decided  Raven.  “Then 
you  build  another  pad  in  front  of  me 
and  lie  against  that.  That  will  take 
care  of  the  acceleration.” 

They  had  scarcely  disposed 
themselves  in  their  nest  of  padding 
when  a voice  cried,  “Who  left  this 
door  open?” 

Came  a thud  as  the  door  closed  on 
its  water-tight  casing,  followed  by  a 
creaking  of  locks. 

“How  about  the  air  in  here?”  in- 
quired Topaz  out  of  the  thick  dark- 
ness. 

“We’ll  be  in  here  for  only  a few 
minutes,”  Raven  assured  her. 
“There’ll  be  enough.” 

Topaz  squirmed  restlessly. 

“There’s  something  hard  under- 
neath this  stuff,  something  with 
ridges  on  it,”  she  announced  at 
length. 

“Perhaps  it’s  boxed  parts  for  the 
stereo,”  guessed  Raven. 

As  if  in  reply  the  door  opened, 
something  was  tossed  in  with  a 
thump,  and  Cragstar’s  voice  was 
heard  indistinctly. 

“ — Exchange  has  a relay  system 
working,  so  they’re  not  going  to  re- 
build the  stereo  for  the  short  time 
remaining.” 

The  door  closed  again. 

“That  disposes  of  your  theory,” 
remarked  Topaz.  “What  are  these 
things  under  me?” 

The  compartment  was  illumined 
by  the  beam  of  her  forehead  disk. 
Followed  a silken  tearing  and  rus- 
tling as  she  dug  into  the  packing, 
then  a sudden  stillness. 

“Name  of  a green  porpoise!” 


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144 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


“What’s  the  matter?”  Raven  in- 
quired curiously. 

Topaz’s  light  was  extinguished. 

“Lethegen  cylinders!  I hope  the 
valves  are  all  good.” 

“A  little  leak  wouldn’t  hurt.  We’d 
recover  soon.” 

“But  in  the  meantime — Every- 
thing might  happen!” 

The  car  began  to  move.  It  slid 
into  the  air  lock  with  a clang.  Water 
gurgled  around  it.  Then — accelera- 
tion! 

The  valves  of  the  lethegen  cylin- 
ders were  in  perfect  condition  when 
the  car  started,  but  they  had  been 
stowed  away  hurriedly.  An  inter- 
space between  the  valve  of  one 
cylinder  and  the  base  of  the  one 
ahead  of  it  was  not  solidly  packed. 
When  the  acceleration  began  the  for- 
ward cylinder  jerked  back  two 
inches — 

An  ear  pressed  close  to  the  valve 
thereafter  might  have  heard  a mi- 
nute sizzling. 

Fifteen  seconds  later  the  car  slid 
out  of  the  air  lock  into  Vervain’s 
anteroom.  A member  of  the  warp- 
suit  squad  Opened  the  freight  com- 
partment, detected  a faint  banana- 
like fragrance,  hastily  closed  it  again. 

“Gas  leak,”  he  replied  tersely  to  a 
companion’s  query  as  he  closed  the 
zipper  of  his  suit  and  encapsulated 
himself  in  a warp  sheath.  The 
others  did  likewise; 

“Test  kit  is  in  there  with  the  cylin- 
ders,” he  continued,  speaking  into 
his  radiophone.  “I’ll  find  the  leaky 
one.” 

The  two  stowaways  had  been 
unable  to  surround  themselves  with 
protecting  warps  of  their  own  be- 
cause of  the  acceleration  of  the  car 
during  the  first  half  of  its  transit; 
their  arms  had  been  pinioned  at  their 
sides.  In  that  brief  time  the  highly 
diluted  lethegen  had  paralyzed  the 


higher  brain  centers  and  they  were 
removed  from  the  compartment  in  a 
state  of  smiling  vacuity. 

Raven  uttered  one  word:  “Octo- 

push.” 

“I  shooed  them  away  once,”  grum- 
bled their  rescuer.  “What’ll  we  do 
with  ’em  now?” 

“Stand  ’em  up  against  the  wall 
until  they  come  out  of  it.  They’re 
only  in  the  blank  stage.” 

“They  may  fall  over.  Better  sit 
them  together  on  this  bench.  You 
can  put  them  in  any  position  and 
they’ll  stay.  That’s  it.  Bend  their 
legs.  Someone  should  keep  an  eye 
on  them.  You’re  appointed.” 

“Now  then,  where’s  Vervain?” 
asked  the  individual  in  charge  of 
operations.  “Is  he  still  in  the  stereo 
room?” 

“Yes.” 

"Is  there  anyone  with  him?” 
“Triton  named  Kalamar,  a sort  of 
understudy  to  Vervain.  Vervain  let 
him  in.  I’m  told  that  he  seemed 
excited; — said  he  wanted  to  verify 
something.” 

“We’ll  have  to  gas  both  of  them. 
Where  can  we  get  at  the  air  duct  to 
the  stereo  room?” 

“In  Vervain’s  museum  of  oddities 
—the  next  room.  There’s  a manhole 
into  a service  tunnel.” 

“Let’s  begin,  then.  We’d  better 
keep  our  suits  on  until  he’s  thor- 
oughly gassed.  He  may  come  out 
at  the  first  whiff.” 

A broadcast  narrator  in  the  con- 
ference hall  leveled  his  televisor  at 
the  manhole  leading  to  the  service 
tunnel  and  bent  over  his  microphone. 

“The  cylinders  which  are  now  be- 
ing passed  into  the  manhole  contain 
lethegen,”  said  the  narrator.  “An 
opening  has  been  drilled  into  the  air 
duct  serving  the  stereo  room  and  a 
stream  of  lethegen  is  being  poured 
into  it.  They  are  using  ten  cylin- 
ders of  lethegen,  since  a high  con- 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


145 


centration  of  the  gas  is  desired  and 
the  stereo  room  is  of  fairly  large 
volume.  There  goes  the  last  cylin- 
der, and  Vervain  has  made  no  at- 
tempt to  escape.  Now  the  gas  squad 
are  removing  their  suits  and  piling 
them  on  the  floor.  One  moment, 
please,  while  I inquire  about  this.” 

Pause,  while  the  narrator  made 
inquiries. 

“There  is  no  further  need  of  the 
suits,  since  Vervain  is  undoubtedly 
reduced  to  a state  of  profound  coma. 
Moreover,  the  expansion  of  the  com- 
pressed oxygen  which  the  gas  squad 
have  been  breathing  renders  the  in- 
terior of  the  suits  cool  and  clammy. 
Now  they  are  bringing  in  cylinders 
of  antivector  gas.  This  will  sweep 
through  the  ventilating  system  and 
precipitate  the  lethegen  as  a shower 
of  minute,  stable,  and  innocuous 
crystals.  The  crystals  are  volatile 
at  several  degrees  below  body  tem- 
perature; therefore  they  do  not  form 
in  the  lungs  and  cause  irritation. 
The  antivector  gas  does  not  neutral- 
ize the  narcotic  effect  of  the  lethegen 
already  inhaled  and  absorbed  by  the 
blood  stream;  that  may  be  allowed 
either  to  disappear  naturally — the 
length  of  time  required  depending  on 
the  amount  absorbed — or  it  may  be 
treated  by  other  and  more  quickly 
effective  means.” 

Two  men  mounted  the  steps  to  the 
door  of  the  stereo  room.  The  nar- 
rator continued: 

“In  a few  moments  we  shall  show 
you  Vervain  and  the  stereo  room. 
There  was  a little  difficulty  in  finding 
the  reserve  of  duplicate  keys — a mat- 
ter which  was  in  Vervain’s  care. 
These  massive  portals,  patterned 
after  the  air  locks  of  interplanetary 
vessels,  render  it  possible  to  isolate 
an  accidentally  flooded  chamber. 
Ah!  The  door  is  opening.” 

The  circular-  portal  receded  and 


a cloud  of  sparkling  white  crystals 
gushed  from  the  lateral  opening  like 
an  eddy  of  snow.  A party  of  four 
entered  the  opening,  reappeared  lug- 
ging an  inert  figure. 

“Is  this  Vervain?”  queried  the  nar- 
rator. “No!  It  is  Kalamar.  And 
see!  He  is  tightly  bound  with  cop- 
per wire!  What  could  have  occurred 
in  the  stereo  room?” 

“There’s  a perfect  fog  in  there,” 
announced  one  of  the  men  carrying 
Kalamar.  “The  crystals  are  still 
coming  down.  Kalamar  was  near 
the  door.  We  couldn’t  see  Vervain.” 

“Then  behold  him  now!”  boomed 
a huge  voice. 

Vervain  was  standing  in  the  portal 
of  the  stereo  room,  dusted  from  head 
to  foot  with  clinging  white  powder, 
the  diatrode  gun  in  his  hands. 

He  descended  the  steps  and  stood 
astride  the  pile  of  discarded  warp 
suits. 

XII. 

“Raton!  It  did!” 

Topaz  found  it  strangely  difficult 
to  express  herself. 

“What  did?”  responded  Raven 
dully. 

“It  leaked!  I mean  the  gas,  and 
we’ve  been  put  off  somewhere!” 

“I  don’t  care,”  yawned  Raven; 
then  exclaimed:  “What  did  you 

say?” 

Topaz  repeated  her  remarks  in 
more  coherent  form. 

“We’re  in  a tube  station;  there’s 
three  cars  lined  up,”  said  Raven,  his 
alertness  returning,  “and  there’s  a 
lot  of  loud  talking  and  running 
around  going  on — in  there.” 

He  turned  toward  the  door  of  the 
conference  hall,  where  Vervain  had 
just  made  his  appearance.  The  in- 
dividual who  had  been  detailed  to 
“keep  an  eye  on  them”  had  been 
called  upon  to  assist  in  carrying 
cylinders  of  antivector  gas  when  it 


146 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


seemed  certain  that  Vervain  was 
hors  de  combat. 

“This  misguided  one  shall  be  an 
example,”  Vervain  was  saying;  he 
gestured  with  the  diatrode  gun  to- 
ward the  bound  and  unconscious 
Kalamar.  “I  had  not  made  up  my 
mind  what  to  do  with  him.  He  at- 
tacked me  after  I admitted  him  to 
the  stereo  room.  Now  I have  de- 
cided. Watch  and  take  heed.  Thus 
shall  I deal  with  opposition.  You 
who  are  supporting  him  may  stand 
aside  or  not,  as  you  wish;  it  is  of  no 
importance  to  me.” 

When  Vervain  had  appeared,  un- 
scathed, after  what  should  have  been 
an  overwhelming  flood  of  lethegen, 
there  had  been  a general  outcry  and 
momentary  confusion  in  the  confer- 
ence hall,  then  a sudden  stillness 
while  he  spoke.  At  the  end  of  his 
pronouncement,  the  four  who  had 
brought  out  Kalamar  laid  their 
burden  on  the  floor,  sidled  away— 
but  they  moved  toward  Vervain. 
All  the  occupants  of  the  hall  com- 
menced a slow,  cautious  encircling 
movement  toward  Vervain. 

While  watching,  listening  myriads 
bit  their  lips,  clenched  their  hands, 
rose  from  their  'seats,  the  broadcast 
narrator  continued  in  a husky  voice: 

“It  seems  inevitable  that  Vervain 
will  not  be  subdued  without  tragedy, 
unless — It  has  occurred  to  me  that 
I may  drive  this  mobile  unit  at  Ver- 
vain,"then  leap  off!  I shall  leave  the 
televisor  in  operation.  The  broad- 
cast from  this  particular  point  will 
cease  abruptly.  You  will  observe 
that,  we  are  now  rushing  directly  to- 
ward Vervain.” 

The  narrator’s  voice  rose. 

“But  wait!  We  have  a new  factor 
in  the  equation!” 

Two  figures  had  darted  into  the 
hall  from  the  anteroom — two  figures 
incased  in  the  glistening  fabric  of 
warp  armor.  The  detachable 


weighted  uppers  of  the  boots  had 
been  removed,  leaving  only  the  cor- 
rugated soles.  These  two  also  were 
speeding  toward  Vervain. 

Vervain  had  aimed  his  weapon  at 
the  prostrate  Kalamar;  then  he  per- 
ceived the  headlong  rush  of  the  mo- 
bile televisor.  A fraction  of  a second 
later  he  discovered  the  charging  fig- 
ures of  Raven  and  Topaz.  He  wav- 
ered, confused,  by  a multiplicity  of 
targets. 

The  navigators  of  the  Kelonia  now 
executed  a maneuver  which  had 
originated  in  a sport  of  the  ancient 
world — a sport  of  indomitable  vital- 
ity, surviving  universal  social  col- 
lapse to  rise  again,  curiously  trans- 
formed in  some  details  but  still 
recognizably  the  same. 

At  a distance  of  fifty  feet  from 
Vervain,  Raven  panted  into  his 
stereophone: 

“Now!  Together!” 

As  one  they  cast  themselves  on  the 
floor,  hurtled  toward  Vervain  feet- 
first,  super-smooth  warp  skidding  on 
smooth  vitrolith  pavement.  Under 
other  circumstances  it  would  have 
been  a spectacular  double  slide  to 
the  home  plate. 

Vervain’s  legs  were  rammed  by 
two  pairs  of  steel-ribbed  boot  soles 
just  as  the  televisor  arrived.  Vervain 
and  televisor  were  overthrown  to- 
gether with  a resounding  crash.  The 
narrator — who  had  forgotten  to  leap 
off  in  his  concentration  on  Raven  and 
Topaz — was  catapulted  into  the  tan- 
gle, further  complicated  by  the  pile 
of  warp  suits.  The  diatrode  gun 
skittered  over  the  floor.  Raven  rose 
from  the  heaving  pile  and  slid 
after  it. 

A general  rush — including  two 
auxiliary  televisors — converged  on 
the  melee. 

Vervain  heaved  to  his  feet,  shed- 
ding warp  suits.  The  narrator  tried 
to  grip  Vervain’s  legs,  was  kicked 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


147 


loose  and  sent  rolling  over  the  pave- 
ment. Topaz  bounded  up  from  her 
prone  position,  leaped  upon  Ver- 
vain’s back,  fastened  herself  there 
with  a full  nelson  and  a scissor  grip 
around  the  waist.  Raven  rose  on 
one  knee  with  the  gun  in  his  hand. 
The  narrator  scrambled  to  his  feet 
with  a detached  wheel  of  the  tele- 
visor carriage  in  his  grasp,  threw  it 
at  Vervain.  The  wheel  rebounded 
from  Vervain’s  head,  sailed  through 
the  air,  struck  the  forehead  of  a gas- 
squad  man,  felled  him  in  his  tracks. 

Vervain  jerked  his  head  backward 
with  irresistible  force,  broke  Topaz’s 
grip  with  ease,  bent  forward  sud- 
denly, sent  her  somersaulting  over 
his  head.  The  smooth  warp  surface 
was  ill-adapted  for  wrestling  tactics. 
Topaz  ended  her  flight  on  the  nar- 
rator. Now  Vervain  snatched  up 
the  televisor,  carriage  and  all,  lifted 
it  above  his  head,  hurled  it  at  Raven. 

This  fearful  missile  descended  on 
Raven  and  burst  over  his  warp  as  if 
it  had  fallen  on  a block  of  steel.  The 
diatrode  gun  was  discharged  by  the 
impact.  A whirling  blue  globe  sped 
toward  Topaz,  who  was  disentan- 
gling herself  from  the  narrator.  It 
collided  with  the  warp  sheath  of  her 
hood  and  thereupon  disintegrated 
into  a score  of  lesser  globes  which 
fled  away  from  each  other,  mutually 
repelled,  into  all  parts  of  the  confer- 
ence hall. 

One  of  these  secondary  globules 
struck  Vervain  in  the  chest.  It 
seemed  to  melt  into  him.  His  arms 
fell  limply  at  his  sides  and  he  stood 
swaying  lightly,  face  and  body 
racked  with  muscular  spasms.  Then 
he  became  motionless,  stiffly  upright. 
The  crowd  approached  him  cau- 
tiously. 

Raven  struggled  up  from  the 
wreckage  of  the  televisor,  shaking- 
off  fragments  of  glass  and  metal,  and 
hastened  toward  the  throng  which 

AST— 10 


had  gathered  about  the  rigidly  erect 
body,  unfastening  his  zipper  as  he 
ran. 

A gas-squad  man  stood  before 
Vervain,  ear  pressed  against  his 
chest. 

“It  would  be  understating  it  to 
say  that  he’s  out  cold,”  said  the  gas- 
squad  man.  "He’s  cold  as  a fish’s 
tail.  It’s  a.  queer  way  for  electrocu- 
tion to  affect  a man.  He’s  dead  on 
his  feet.” 

XIII. 

The  body  lay  on  a wheeled  table 
in  the  dockmaster’s  office,  where  it 
awaited  transfer  to  the  Capricorn. 
Kalamar,  now  fully  recovered  from 
the  effects  of  the  lethegen,  stood  be- 
side it  and  spoke  to  the  silent  gather- 
ing which  filled  the  room. 

“There  can  be  no  doubt;  there  is 
not  the  slightest  indication  of  life,” 
declared  Kalamar.  “Does  it  not  seem 
strange — this  immediate  bodily  cold- 
ness, the  initial  rigidity  followed  by 
complete  relaxation  with  no  sigh  of 
rigor  mortis?  See — I can  flex  the 
arm,  the  fingers,  without  the  slight- 
est difficulty,  yet  they  are  entirely 
lacking  in  warmth.  It  seems  that  no 
one  has  the  answer.  Nautilus,  where 
are  our  fingerprint  files?” 

“They  are  packed  and  on  Pier  7, 
waiting  to  be  taken  aboard,”  was  the 
surprised  response. 

“Have  the  case  opened  and  bring 
me  Vervain’s  fingerprints,  together 
with  the  kit  for  taking  prints,  and 
the  projector.” 

“Certainly.  But  why — ” 

“You  shall  see,”  replied  Kalamar, 
a cryptic  gleam  in  his  eye. 

When  the  requested  articles  had 
been  brought,  Kalamar  took  the 
prints  of  the  flaccid  fingers  on  a glass 
slide  and  inserted  two  slides  in  the 
projector.  The  images  were  thrown 
on  the  ceiling. 

“On  this  side  are  Vervain’s  au- 


148 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


thentic  prints,”  Kalamar  explained. 
“On  the  other  are  the  ones  which  I 
have  just  taken.” 

An  outburst  of  protests  followed. 
The  authentic  prints  showed  the 
usual  tracery  of  lines  and  whorls;  the 
others  were  mere  featureless  smears, 
with  no  distinguishing  characteristics 
save  some  irregularities  in  the  prints 
of  the  left  fingers. 

“The  authentic  prints  cannot  be 
questioned,”  replied  Kalamar  to  the 
objectors.  “I  reprinted  everyone  in 
the  Reef  when  I took  charge  of  the 
fingerprint  file.  No,  Vervain  has 
never  suffered  an  injury  since  then 
which  obliterated  the  markings.  I 
am  not  contradicting  myself  when  I 
say  that  the  irregularities  in  the 
prints  from  the  left  hand  of  this  body 
are  due  to  burns  which  were  inflicted 
today.  These  new  prints  are  not 
those  of  anyone  in  Triton  Reef;  they 
do  not  match  Vervain’s  because  they 
are  not  Vervains  fingerprints." 

“What  preposterous  nonsense!  Are 
you  mad  also?”  sputtered  Nautilus. 
“We  just  saw  you  take  them!” 

“You  did  not  see  me  take  Ver- 
vain’s fingerprints;  that  is  impossible 
at  the  moment,”  retorted  Kalamar. 
He  turned  and  pointed  at  the  figure 
on  the  wheeled  table.  “It  is  impos- 
sible because  that  is  not  Vervain’s 
body!” 

“Then  whose  is  it?” 

“When  did  the  substitution  take 
place?” 

“Where  is  the  body  of  Vervain?” 
“It  would  be  more  to  the  point  to 
ask,  ‘Where  is  Cymorpagon?’  ” re- 
sponded Kalamar.  “As  to  the  iden- 
tity of  these  remains,  that  will  not 
be  difficult  to  establish.” 

He  placed  a small,  flat  case  upon 
the  table,  opened  it,  and  exposed  a 
glittering  array  of  dissecting  instru- 
ments. 

“When  we  have  done  that — and  it 
will  not  require  much  time — we  must 


proceed  to  the  much  more  important 
task  of  finding  Vervain.  I am  now 
positive  that — ” 

The  following  words,  if  any,  were 
washed  away  in  a tidal  wave  of 
sound — from  the  cosmic  standpoint, 
a mere  creaking  of  Earth’s  frame- 
work; to  the  inhabitants  of  Triton 
Reef,  the  infernal  bellowing  of  blind, 
elemental  power  on  the  loose.  Cubic 
miles  of  rock  stirred  and  moved  up- 
ward half  an  inch.  A section  of  the 
granitoid  dome  above  the  dock  basin 
rumbled,  split,  plunged  into  the  pool 
with  a roaring  impact,  engulfed  it  in 
darkness,  sent  a great  wave  washing 
over  the  wharves  and  into  the  dock- 
master’s  office.  Through  the  ragged 
gap  in  the  dome  appeared  the  serene 
green-blue  of  the  evening  sky  and 
the  lucid  brilliance  of  Venus. 

The  occupants  of  the  office  were 
left  floundering  on  the  floor  like 
stranded  fish.  Nautilus  struggled  to 
his  feet,  unhooked  the  flashlight  at 
his  girdle,  swept  its  beam  around  the 
room.  The  wheeled  table  had  been 
relieved  of  its  burden.  Other  beams 
pierced  the  darkness.  There  were 
shoutings  and  moving  lights  along 
the  docks. 

“The  body  is  gone!”  cried  Kala- 
mar. “Look  on  the  floor!” 

But  it  was  not  there. 

“Perhaps  it  was  carried  out  in  the 
backwash,”  suggested  Nautilus. 

“No,  it  is  here,”  replied  a new 
voice. 

Vervain’s  voice!  Without  doubt. 
Vervain’s  voice!  The  alien  quality 
had  vanished. 

A dozen  beams  were  turned  toward 
the  source  of  these  words. 

Vervain — or  that  which  appeared 
to  be  Vervain,  and  which  Kalamar 
had  pronounced  lifeless — was  stand- 
ing among  them. 

“Regardless  of  appearances,  I am 
not  Vervain,”  declared  the  enigmatic 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


149 


one,  tapping  himself  on  the  chest. 
“Kaiamar,  I believe,  will  understand. 
Follow  me  and  I will  show  you  where 
I am — I mean,  where  Vervain  is. 
We  must  go  to  Cymorpagon’s  quar- 
ters. I see  that  the  way  is  already 
open.” 

He  indicated  a.  panel  of  the  wall; 
it  had  swung  outward  on  hinges.  A 
triangular  notch  had  been  cut  in  the 
vertical  edge  and  the  detached  frag- 
ment lay  on  the  floor.  Both  notch 
and  fragment  showed  a bright  edge 
of  a newly-cut  metal. 

“But — that  was  not  open  ten  min- 
utes ago!”  exclaimed  Raven,  who  for 
a time  had  been  stricken  wordless  by 
the  whirl  of  events. 

“Therefore  it  was  opened  during 
the  quake,”  replied  he  who  was  not 
Vervain.  “Cymorpagon  opened  it 
by  cutting  out  the  lock.  I presume 
he  dived  from  the  dock,  swam 


through  the  portal,  and  is  now  out- 
side the  Reef.  Probably  we  shall  find 
the  cutting  tool  at  the  bottom  of  the 
shaft.” 

“What  shaft?”  inquired  Cragstar. 

“I  can  answer  that,”  said  Kaia- 
mar. “That  panel  was  once  a grid 
opening  into  a vertical  air  duct.  It 
was  part  of  the  ventilating  system 
of  the  living  quarters  for  the  Dry- 
lander  staff  which  manned  Triton 
Reef  in  its  early  days.  The  cham- 
bers have  been  empty  and  aban- 
doned for  years;  most  of  the  en- 
trances are  sealed.” 

“But  we  examined  all  those  cham- 
bers when  we  searched  for  Cymor- 
pagon,” protested  Nautilus. 

“Not  all,”  corrected  Vervain’s 
double.  “There  were  some  which 
you  did  not  discover;  they  are  care- 
fully camouflaged.  If  you  will  refer 
to  the  old  blueprints  of  the  Reef  you 


ISO 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


will  see  them.  Now,  if  you  will  fol- 
low me — ” 

They  descended  the  shaft  by  a 
built-in  ladder  of  metal.  The  air  in 
the  duct  was  dank  and  stagnant.  As 
their  guide  had  predicted,  the  cutting 
tool  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft; 
he  picked  it  up  and  took  it  with  him. 
A horizontal  tube  led  them  to  a seam- 
less blue-metal  door. 

“Beyond  this  lies  Cymorpagon’s 
hidden  workroom,”  announced  he 
who  seemed  to  be  Vervain.  “The 
door  is  water-tight  and  provided 
with  multiple  locks.  It  will  be  sim- 
plest to  carve  ourselves  a passage 
with  the  implement  so  conveniently 
left  behind  by  Cymorpagon.” 

The  cutting  tool  was  of  the  type 
known  as  a decoherence  cutter,  or 
deeoherotome.  It  slid  through  the 
metal  with  a crackling  sound,,  leav- 
ing a transient  phosphorescent  trail, 
cleanly  excised  a circular  block.  The 
Vervain  who  was  not  Vervain  pushed 
on  the  block  and  it  fell  inward  with 
a clang';  light  streamed  from  the 
space  beyond.  He  spoke  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  started  to  crawl 
through  the  opening. 

“You  will  wait  here  a few  moments 
until  I call  you.” 

After  a short  lapse  of  time  Ver- 
vain’s voice  said,  ‘“Enter.” 

The  others  peered  into  the  cham- 
ber and  beheld — two  Vervains, 
standing  side  by  side.  A framework 
of  intersecting  rings  like  a huge  ar- 
millary sphere  reared  its  frabric  be- 
hind them. 

For  a few  seconds  the  two  figures 
stood  motionless,  then  one  of  them 
smiled  and  stepped  forward. 

“Your  faces  are  a study  in  aston- 
ishment,” he  remarked.  “Meet  my 
alter  ego,  Vervain  the  Robot.  It  is 
he  who  brought  you  here — and  who 
now  releases  me.  Let  me  show  you 
how  he  works.” 


When  the  others  had  entered  and 
assembled  around  the  framework  of 
rings.  Vervain  clambered  into  the 
midst  of  it  and  snapped  a metal  har- 
ness about  his  arms,  his  legs,  his 
body;  inserted  his  head  in  a sus- 
pended helmet, 

“This  is  the  pantograph  control,” 
Vervain’s  voice  came  hollowly  from 
the  helmet.  “From  my  cell  I have 
seen  it  operated  by  Cymorpagon. 
Now  I throw  it  into  operation.” 

Lights  glowed;  Vervain  was  lifted 
and  hung  floating  at  the  center  of 
the  skeleton  sphere;  the  various  rings 
moved  and  shifted  slightly  but  noise- 
lessly on  each  other.  The  robot 
duplicated  Vervain’s  posture  and  be- 
gan to  speak. 

“This  harness  is  now  enveloped 
in  a transmitting  field  similar  to  that 
used  in  stereotelephonv,”  said  the 
robot,  gesturing  toward  Vervain,  who 
gestured  away  from  the  robot.  “The 
robot  carries  a transmitter  of  its 
own,  drawing  power  from  here.  I 
see  what  it  sees,  hear  what  it  hears; 
it  transmits  my  voice,  does  what  I 
do.  To  duplicate  facial  expressions 
would  involve  refinements  which 
Cymorpagon  did  not  attempt.” 

, The  robot  walked  around  the 
stereo-pantograph  while  Vervain 
trod  on  air  within  the  shifting  rings. 

“If  any  part  of  the  robot  encoun- 
ters an  obstacle,”  it  continued,  “a 
certain  resistance  is  transmitted  to 
me  through  the  pantograph.  This 
is  its  nearest  approach  to  a sense  of 
touch.  Only  through  this,  and 
vision,  do  I have  any  information  as 
to  the  surface  on  which  the  robot 
happens  to  be  walking.  It  has  no 
sense  of  smell  and — fortunately  for 
the  operator — no  sense  of  pain.  It 
is  not  overly  difficult  to  operate;  one 
has  only  to  project  oneself  in  im- 
agination into  the  scene  revealed  in 
the  televisor,  within  this  helmet. 
See — I make  it  climb  this  grating. 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


1S1 


the  door  of  my  cell  from  which  I 
watched  Cymorpagon,  then  climb 
down  again.  In  passing,  you  may 
ask  how  I opened  it.  I didn’t.  The 
last  quake  did  that.” 

Vervain  switched  off  the  panto- 
graph, descended  from  the  frame- 
work. 

“I  am  curious  to  know  how  you 
vanquished  the  robot,”  he  said.  “Not 
long  before  the  quake,  something 
happened  to  Cymorpagon.  There 
was  an  electrical  discharge  from  the 
pantograph;  Cymorpagon  was  sur- 
rounded by  a faint  bluish  corona  for 
a few  seconds,  and  hung  limply  for 
quite  a long  time  thereafter.  I 
thought  he  was  dead.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  groan,  and  hurriedly  climbed 
down  from  the  pantograph,  mutter- 
ing about  something  he  had  seen  in 
the  televisor.  After  that  he  took  the 
cutting  tool  and  departed,  leaving 
me  in  my  cell.” 

Raven  and  others  gave  a brief  de- 
scription of  the  struggle  in  the  stereo 
room. 

“It  seems.  Raven,  that  yours  is 
the  first  authentic  instance  of  me- 
chanieide,”  said  Vervain. 

“Is  that  also  part  of  the  stereo- 
pantograph?” inquired  Cragstar,  in- 
dicating a bewildering  mechanism 
which  occupied  one  whole  wall  of 
the  room. 

“No,  that  is  Cymorpagon’s  earth- 
quake machine,”  responded  Vervain. 
“He  gave  me  quite  a discourse  on  it 
when  the  l-obot  Vervain  was  sup- 
posed to  be  asleep.  He  claimed  to 
exert  a secret  control  over  the  geo- 
dyne converters  by  means  of  it. 
Actually  it  is  no  more  than  the  im- 
aginings of  an  insane  mechanical 
genius,  made  visible.  It  moves,  it 
seems  to  do  things,  but  accomplishes 
nothing.  Any  tampering  with  the 
converters  would  obviously  register 
on  the  indicator  panels.  Even  if 
Cymorpagon’s  scheme  of  producing 


artificial  Earth  movements  were 
theoretically  possible,  the  little 
driblet  of  energy  which  our  entire 
geodyne  plant  extracts  from  the 
Earth’s  core  would  be  a microscopic 
portion  of  the  required  amount. 

“His  mind  seemed  divided  into 
two  compartments.  With  one,  he 
discharged  his  duties  in  the  geodyne 
plant  with  outstanding  efficiency. 
With  the  other,  he  conceived  things 
like  this.  And  at  the  same  time  he 
was  astute  enough  to  provide  his 
workroom  with  a self-contained 
source  of  energy,  so  that  there  would 
be  no  drain  on  the  Reef  power  lines.” 

“How  did  he  get  in  and  out  of 
this  place  ordinarily?” 

“Through  the  tool  closet.  It  has 
a sliding  floor  which  communicates 
with  his  sleeping  pool.  That’s  how 
I came  in.  He  must  have  spent  years 
in  building  this  hide-out,  little  by 
little.” 

“Which  brings  us  to  the  ‘evidence’ 
he  spoke  of,”  remarked  Kalamar. 
“What  was  it?  And  his  opposition 
to  the  ambitions  of  our  children — 
where  does  that  fit  in?  He  seemed 
plausible  for  a while— I regret  to 
say.” 

“There  was  no  ‘evidence’,”  re- 
sponded Vervain.  “That  was  pure 
deception.  I doubted  its  existence, 
but  I had  to  know  the  facts,  what- 
ever they  were,  and  walked  into  the 
trap.  I did  not  expect  to  be  forcibly 
imprisoned.  I believe  that  his  oppo- 
sition was  sincere  in  part.  He  was 
among  the  earlier  synthetic  Tritons 
— a laboratory  infant,  drawn  squall- 
ing from  a cylinder  of  sterile  plasm. 
The  technique  was  not  so  precise 
then,  and  as  he  grew  older  he  brooded 
over  his  physical  differences.  Triton 
Reef  was  his  fortress;  he  feared  the 
other  world.  He  became  an  obsession 
— psychopathic.” 

“But  the  robot,  in  your  likeness! 
Cymorpagon  couldn’t  have  made 


152 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


that,”  objected  Nautilus.  “He  was 
no  anatomist.” 

“True.  But  he  was  a warp  en- 
gineer. He  fitted  it  with  pantograph 
control,”  responded  Vervain.  “I  do 
not  know  when  he  obtained  the 
body.  The  head — Kalamar  will  re- 
member that.” 

“It  was  made  as  a jest,”  Kalamar 
informed  them,  “during  my  student 
days.  We  always  made  the  heads 
in  the  likeness  of  someone.  As  I re- 
call, yours  was  mounted  on  a pedestal 
and  provided  with  a phonographic 
attachment.” 

“And  presented  to  me,”  finished 
Vervain.  “Eventually  Cymorpagon 
admired  it  and  I gave  it  to  him.  It 
may  be  that  it  was  then  he  conceived 
his  puerile  dream  of  a Triton  autoc- 
racy.” 

“Cymorpagon  was  about  two 
thousand  years  late,”  said  Cragstar 
reflectively.  “If  he  had  lived  in  the 
times  of  those  skew-minded  people 
who  thought  that  they  could  rule  the 
world  single-handed — you  know 

whom  I mean.  There  was  one  called 
Butler,  or  Whistler — I can’t  think 
of  the  name  at  the  moment.” 

“You’re  thinking  of  Hittelberg,” 
Raven  declared  promptly.  “There 
was  a university  town  by  the  same 
name  in  this  country.” 

“I  am  never  very  quick  at  remem- 
bering historical  names,”  apologized 
Cragstar. 

The  Kelonia  had  turned  her  prow 
northwestward  toward  Pitcairn  Isl- 
and, rose  and  fell  on  the  pursuing 
rollers  which  broke  over  her  stern 
with  a rhythmic  swashing.  Over- 
head, a star-dusted  sky  in  a rare  in- 
terval of  clarity.  Raven 'and  Topaz 
gazed  toward  Triton  Reef  through 
the  aft  port  of  the  control  cabin. 

“The  Reef  hasn’t  been  so  lit  up 
since  the  S.  P.  C.  engineers  finished 
it,  I’ll  wager,”  remarked  Raven. 


Half  a mile  above  it  hovered  the 
Capricorn,  the  Tritons  and  their  be- 
longings now  safely  aboard.  She  was 
bejeweled  with  lighted  portholes,  and 
played  a ten-million-candlepower 
beam  over  the  crags  and  spume 
geysers  of  Triton  Reef.  Another 
giant  beam  burned  down  upon  the 
NE-6-137,  afloat  at  a lower  level, 
transmuting  her  into  a spindle  of 
silver  flame.  The  NE  cruiser  in  turn 
sprayed  the  Capricorn,  the  Reef,  the 
sea  with  a fan  of  lesser  beams,  sent 
them  twizzling  to  the  horizon  and 
back  again,  splashed  golden  corusca- 
tions from  the  sleek  hull  of  the  Capri- 
corn. 

At  Communications  Central  Nar- 
hajian’s  transcription  editors  had  al- 
ready nearly  completed  building  up 
a master  cartridge  into  a progressive, 
coherent  narrative,  which  presently 
would  begin  to  unreel  its  tale  of 
strange  history  made  and  stranger 
history  in  the  making,  by  wire  and 
radio  and  stereo  beam.  Around  the 
world  the  duplicators  in  their  mil- 
lions waited  to  reproduce  that  car- 
tridge, for  study  and  repetition  at 
the  receiver’s  leisure: 

THE  SAGA  OF  THE  TRITONS 

The  narrative  began: 

CHAPTER  THE  FIRST 

Vervain  and  Kalamar,  aboard  the 
Capricorn,  stood  on  a deck  of  silicoid 
and  looked  down  upon  the  Reef 
through  a half  mile  of  vacancy. 

“At  first,  I thought  that  you  were 
under  some  form  of  mental  control,” 
said  Kalamar,  “although  so  far  as  I 
knew,  Cymorpagon  was  no  hypno- 
tist. I began  to  suspect  when  I laid 
my  hand  on  your — on  the  robot’s— 
arm.  It  was  cold,  cold  and  rubbery. 
Then  I thought  of  the  line  like  a sear 
around  the  neck.” 


CRISIS  IN  UTOPIA 


153 


“Somewhere  down  there  he  still 
lives — -I  hope,”  mused  Vervain, 
thinking  of  Cymorpagon  as  the  illu- 
mination poured  over  Rhinoceros 
Rook.  “The  Reef  is  well  provisioned. 
We  may  find  him  when  we  return  to 
salvage  the  heavy  equipment — 
What’s  that?” 

A tiny,  glistening,  black  figure  was 
creeping  antlike  toward  the  summit 
of  the  peak  on  Rhinoceros  Rock. 

Hooded  televisors  were  hastily  un- 
covered. The  weary  telescreen  au- 
dience, slowly  dispersing  or  sprawled 
about  their  instrument  among  the 
litter  of  hastily  prepared  refresh- 
ments, were  galvanized  by  a terse 
announcement. 

“Cymorpagon  has  shown  himself 
on  one  of  the  islets  of  the  Reef.  The 
Capricorn  is  launching  a boat  to  take 
him  off.” 

But  the  rescue  party  never  reached 


Cymorpagon.  A televisor  with  tele- 
scopic attachment,  aboard  the  life- 
boat, caught  a brief  picture  of  him 
atop  the  horn  of  Rhinoceros  Rock. 
He  was  drenched  in  the  vivid  glare 
of  the  Capricorn’s  beam,  a figure  of 
blue-black  and  silver  with  lumines- 
cent eyes.  He  stood  with  feet  widely 
planted,  hands  clasped  behind  him. 
He  seemed  to  be  trembling,  but  he 
was  not.  Rhinoceros  Rock  itself  was 
quivering. 

Cymorpagon  regarded  the  de- 
scending lifeboat— not  with  the  im- 
ploring, terrified  eyes  of  a proper 
castaway — but  with  contempt,,  de- 
fiance, even  triumph.  He  swayed 
with  the  swaying  of  the  rock,  struck 
himself  on  the  chest  with  one  hand, 
made  a sweeping  gesture  with  the 
other,  as  if  to  say,  “This  is  my  handi- 
work!” 

The  televisor  on  the  lifeboat  ab- 


OLD  MR.  BOSTON  SAYS:  “MY  APRICOT  NECTAR  IS  A TREAT  YOU’LL  CHEER!” 


rich  as  v 
brandy, 
SMOOTH  AS 
HONEY!/ 


HERE'S  THE 
| DRINK  A 
THAT  GETS' 


WBOSj,0/ 


ITS  THE  DRINK  THAT 
DOES  THE  TRICK, 
GOT  WHAT  IT  TAKES 
TO  AtAKE  YOU  CLICK! 


A Beverage  Liqueur  prepared  by  Ben-Burk,  Inc.,  Bolton,  Mass. 

old  mooston  afiicotnictm 


A ISO  &LAtK,&€R8Y  | PEACH 


Mr.  Boston’s  Apricot  Nectar  is  a 
liquor  with  the  tempting  flavor  of 
ripe  apricots.  "Rich  as  brandy, 
smooth  as  honey,*’  you’ll  enjoy  j 
drinking  it  straight.  A handy  drink-  | 
ing  cup  tops  each  pint  bottle. 


154 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


ruptly  lost  Cymorpagon’s  image. 
Rhinoceros  Rock  was  crumpling, 
sliding,  disintegrating  in  cascades  of 
flying  granite.  The  sea  was  laced 
with  interweaving  lines  of  foam  like 
the  sand  patterns  on  a vibrating 
plate.  Sea  and  sky  shook  with  the 
thunder  of  invisible  artillery.  The 
ruins  of  Rhinoceros  Rock,  the  crum- 
bling dome  which  covered  the  sub- 
mersible docks,  a dozen  neighboring 
pinnacles  sank  and  vanished  like 
foundering  ships.  A great  circular 
wave,  white-crested,  spread  outward 
from  the  debacle. 

The  wave  overtook  the  Kelonia. 
She  soared  upward  to  the  stars  while 
Raven  and  Topaz  staggered  on  the 
leaping  deck,  clawed  madly  for  hand- 
holds. Then  she  plunged  downward 


until  it  seemed  for  a few  frantic  mo- 
ments that  she  must  surely  dash 
herself  against  the  ocean  bottom. 

“Even  madness  may  serve  a pur- 
pose,” whispered  Kalamar.  “If 
Cymorpagon  had  been  sane,  the  sub- 
mersible fleet  would  be  three  days’ 
away*  and  we  should  be  down  there 
with  him.” 

The  sunken  wreck  of  Triton  Reef 
lay  far  astern.  Astern  of  the  Capri- 
corn, skirting  the  fringes  of  the  outer 
void.  Astern  of  the  Kelonia,  unhur- 
riedly cleaving  the  sea  at  five 
fathoms.  But  aboard  both  craft  the 
dreams  were  the  same — dreams  of 
shallow  seas  under  kindlier  skies,  and 
sun-gilded  groves  of  sponge  and 
coral. 


THE  END. 


“SIAM!” 

That's  a nonsense  word  now — a meaningless  syllable.  Next 
month  it  will  mean  a story  by  A.  E.  van  Vogt,  but  a story  so 
powerful  it's  going  to  put  a new  word  in  the  language!  "Super- 
man" is  a makeshift  term — "slan"  will  be  the  designation  you'll 
remember.  Jommy  Cross  was  a slan — a nine-year-old  boy 
who  wouldn't  be  mature  till  thirty  in  a world  of  humans  that 
loathed  his  breed  with  a deadly  hatred  of  fear.  Ten  Thousand 
Dollars  reward  for  the  out-of-hand  murder  of  any  slan — includ- 
ing a nine-year-old  that  was  fleeing  madly  from  the  street 
corner  where  he'd  just  seen  his  mother  shot  down.  Ten  Thou- 
sand Dollars  reward — for  a member  of  a race  hated  because 
feared,  a kid  with  a bullet  in  his  side  and  no  possible  place  of 
shelter  in  a city  where  every  man's  hand  was  stretched  out  to 
him — to  grab!  And  elsewhere  in  the  city — in  the  Palace  of  the 
World  Dictator — an  eleven-year-old  slan  girl  sitting,  watch- 
ing the  council  trying  to  decide  whether  to  exterminate  her, 
or  keep  her  longer  as  a specimen  to  be  studied,  a political 
football  because  the  dictator  wanted  to  keep  her,  and  those 
that  wanted  to  unseat  the  dictator  wanted  to  defy  him  on 
this  point.  It's  a story  of  supermen,  all  right — but  God  help 
the  supermen  in  that  hate-filled  world!  Don't  miss  that  yarn! 

SLAN!  by  A.  E.  van  VOGT 

in  the  September  Astounding 


155 


BRASS  TflCHS 


These  “ Final  Blackout ” letters  are  but  a 
few  of  many.  They  vastly  interested 
me,  because  the  readers  dispute  the 
actions  of  the  character  with  the  author 
— which  means  the  author  made  that 
character  live! 

Dear  Mr.  Campbell: 

If  L.  Ron  Hubbard  never  writes  an- 
other story,  be  will  still  have  his  place  in 
the  Hall  of  Fame,  not  only  of  science-fic- 
tion, but,  in  my  opinion,  of  literature  as 
well.  I’ve  read  quite  a bit  in  my  short  life, 
but  I will  be  surprised  if  I ever  again  read 
a story  as  powerful  as  “Final  Blackout.” 
All  the  points  were  brought  forth  with 
great  force,  and  when  I finished  the  last 
sentence  tears  were  at  my  eyes,  and  I’m  not 
ashamed  to  admit  it.  “Final  Blackout” 
rated  the  “nova”  and  any  other  award 
you  have  to  offer. 

Before  reading  the  last  installment,  I 
had  a few  minor  criticisms  in  mind  to  write 
1o  you  about,  but  I wouldn’t  think  of  it 
now.  The  excellence  of  the  novel  swept  all 
thought  of  cheap  gibes  away.  You  may  be 
' sure  I’ll  not  let  those  three  issues  of  your 
book  leave  my  hands. 

The  rest  of  the  stories  in  the  June  publi- 
cation were  good  enough  to  have  rated 
excellent  if  they  hadn’t  been  in  competition 
with  L.  Ron  Hubbard’s  masterpiece.  “The 
Roads  Must  Roll”  and  “The  Testament  of 
Akubii”  were  the  outstanding  among  these. 
Your  cover,  by  Rogers,  shows  that  gaudi- 
ness is  not  necessary  to  attract  trade. 
Stating  again  that  “Final  Blackout”  was 


a terrific  novel  and  will  probably  rate 
among  the  top  three  this  year,  even  above 
“Gray  Lensman,”  I leave  you. — Albert 
Manley,  1628  N.  Abingdon  St.,  Arlington, 

Va.  

I’m  led  to  believe  that  “ Final  Blackout ” 

must  have  been  liked! 

Dear  Sirs: 

Before  starting  this  letter  let  me  say  that 
I have  never  before  written  to  any  maga- 
zine for  any  reason  whatsoever,  but  in  this 
case  I believe  it  can  be  broken. 

I am  writing  to  congratulate  you  on 
printing  a story  of  such  high  caliber  as 
L.  Ron  Hubbard’s. “Final  Blackout.”  For 
sheer  excitement,  suspense  and  interest  it 
certainly  was  the  tops.  The  setting  of  the 
story  was  wTell-ehosen  and  it  was  carried 
through  to  the  end  with  a tension  only 
a very  good  writer  could  keep  up.  It  is 
true,  I am  somewhat  disappointed  with  the 
end  which  did  not  seem  at  all  fitting  for  a 
man  like  the  Lieutenant,  but  I suppose 
the  story  had  to  stop  somewhere.  All  in 
all  it  was  the  best  story  I’ve  read  for  years 
— and  I’ve  read  many.  It  certainly  puts 
Astounding  in  the  lead  of  all  other  maga- 
zines, if  it  wasn’t  already  there!  I’d  like 
to  see  more  serial  stories  of  the  same  type 
in  the  near  future  especially  by  L.  Ron 
Hubbard. 

I might  add  I’ve  read  Astounding  since 
March,  1937,  and  have  found  it  the  best. 
In  fact  Astounding  is  the  only  magazine 
of  its  type  I read.  I think  I have  now  had 
my  say  so  again  congratulations  to  L.  Ron 


158 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Hubbard  and  Astounding— Harry  Snyder, 
44  Rusliolme  Road,  Kitchener,  Ont., 
Canada.  

Hubbard  evidently  made  the  Lieutenant 

real! 

Dear  Mr.  Campbell: 

Having  received  the  final  installment  of 
Hubbard’s  serial  and  read  the  story  as  one 
whole  novel  I can  now  come  to  two  con- 
clusions: this  is  going  to  be  one  of  the 
most  controversial  novels  ever  printed,  and 
I should  have  read  it  over  the  two  months’ 
period  because  it  is  much  too  dynamic  to 
take  in  one  sitting. 

The  style  is  the  kind  I most  enjoy,  not 
too  much  science  and  no  trite  Rover  Boy 
actions.  The  Lieutenant,  despite  Hubbards 
obvious  sympathetic  feelings  for  his  char- 
acter, was,  to  me,  one  of  the  most  despic- 
able I ever  encountered.  The  ordinary 
citizen,  no  matter  how  broadminded  he  may 
be,  cannot  honestly  accept  a person  into 
his  realm  that  is  so  shockingly  different 
from  himself.  I do  not  know  if  the  author 
realizes  it,  but  in  this  strange  character  he 
has  endowed  the  perfect  makings  for  the 
recently  popular  “human  mutant”  or 
“superman”  in  science-fiction  stories.  And 
I believe  that  only  the  second  generation 
of  war-cultured  beings  could  reasonably  be- 
come the  mutants  that  will  exterminate 
the  present  order  of  homo  sapien,  their  own 
parents. 

The  many  ideaologies  that  the  author 
seems  to  sponsor  do  not  conform  with 
mine.  I do  not  think  a militaristic  form 
of  government,  as  was  the  future  England’s, 
could  bring  anything  but  a return  of  medi- 
eval transformations.  As  one  of  the  “rab- 
ble”— politicians  and  peasants — I would 
certainly  dislike  being  classed  as  such,  and 
from  observations  of  the  past,  the  ruling 
aristocracies  seem  more  to  be  the  rabble  by 
living  from  the  efforts  of  the  people  they 
so  despise.  Antiquated  and  naive  as  the 
present  run  of  governments  must  seem  to 
such  as  the  Lieutenant  and  his  “mechani- 
cal” human  followers,  I prefer  the  happy, 
though  jumbled,  freedom  I now  enjoy.  I 
can’t  wait  to  hear  what  the  more  pink- 
tinged  of  your  readers  will  have  to  say  on 
the  subject 

I’ve  often  read  that  science-fiction  is  es- 
cape literature.  Far  from  it,  I should  say, 
with  such  socially  significant  stories  as  “If 
This  Goes  On — ”,  “Final  Blackout,”  “The 
Roads  Must  Roll”  and  others.  Ten  years 
ago  the  general  run  of  fantasy  tales  pro- 
vided fun  and  an  entertaining  few  hours. 


Today  the  science  story  is  an  all-time  job 
to  read,  and  not  an  easy  one  to  solve,  at 
that.  My  head  feels  queer  after  finishing 
an  issue  of  Astounding,  as  if  it  were  work- 
ing after  a long  period  of  in  activity.  But 
those  articles!  They  leave  my  brain  but  a 
throbbing  agony.  Surprise:  the  Isip  boys 
did  the  best  illustrations  for  June. — 
Charles  Hidley,  New  York,  New  York. 


“ Surrealism ” does  what  realism  can't 

sometimes. 

Dear  Editor: 

Congratulations!  Astounding  is  out  of 
the  hole  at  last!  The  March  issue  showed 
the  upward  trend,  but  the  April  issue  is  out- 
standing after  almost  a year  of  mediocre 
stories.  The  cover  was  very  good  and 
stood  out  among  the  other  magazines  on 
the  newsstand  as  it  should.  I hesitate,  to 
give  Part  One  of  “Final  Blackout”  a rating 
because  of  the  two  parts  yet  to  come.  How- 
ever, I enjoyed  it  very  much  and  indica- 
tions are  that  it  will  develop  into  a near- 
nova. 

In  my  estimation,  “Reincarnate,”  by  Les- 
ter del  Rey  was  the  best  novelette.  The 
plot  and  ending  combined  with  Kolliker’s 
two  illustrations  give  it  an  A-pIus  rating. 
The  picture  of  the  atomic  explosion  was  so 
expressive  that  it  made  me  wonder  if  sur- 
realist art  didn’t  have  something  on  the  ball 
after  all.  Let’s  have  more  of  Del  Rey  and 
Ivolliker. 

“Repetition,”  by  Van  Vogt,  was  in  sec- 
ond place  with  a rating  of  A.  It  was  a 
good  example  of  some  of  the  problems 
which  will  confront  planetary  adventurers 
and  possible  ways  of  solving  them. 

“Admiral’s  Inspection”  rates  an  A minus. 
It  was  a good  story  with  a humorous  touch 
and  offered  interesting  entertainment. 

“The  Treasure  of  Ptakuth”  was  a better- 
than-average  tale  and  gets  a B rating.  Mars 
is  going  to  have  a hard  time  living  up  to 
the  expectations  of  science-fiction  fans. 

“Unguh  Made  a Fire”  was  fairly  good 
and  rates  a B minus.  It  was  so  improb- 
able that  I had  a hard  time  enjoying  it 
though. 

“The  Magic  Bullet,”  science  article  su- 
preme by  Ley,  I found  very  interesting  and 
informative.  I am  very  interested  in  gas 
and  explosives  myself  and  have  done  some 
experimenting  along  this  line,  so  Ley’s  ar- 
ticles always  “hit  the  spot”  as  far  as  I’m 
concerned. 

A superb  issue  indeed!  Let’s  not  slump 
again,  and  how  about  another  astronomical 


157 


cover  soon? — D.  L.  Dobbs.  1011 — 17  Ave- 
nue, South  East,  Minneapolis,  Minnesota. 


" Heinlein ” is  really  (Shh!)  Robert  Hein- 

lein,  and  not  a moving  picture,  pen 

name,  or  imitation! 

Dear  Mr.  Campbell: 

Best  story  in  the  May  issue  is  Simak’s 
“Rim  of  the  Deep.”  Give  the  man  credit 
for  writing  a really  new  kind  of  undersea 
yarn.  The  plot  didn’t  matter,  thank  good- 
ness— the  warm,  familiar  atmosphere  of 
“coral  city”  and  the  deeps,  and  depth- 
dippy  Old  Gus  were  among  the  most  re- 
freshing things  Simak  has  done.  Maybe 
he  did  treat  pressure  and  things  a little 
lightly — but  give  him  an  A on  this  one. 

Outside  of  that  it  was  a good  issue,  with 
ratings  going  something  like  this: 

“The  Last  of  the  Asterites” — B-plus. 
Atmosphere  again,  and  an  interesting  situa- 
tion. Your  blurb  about  flotsam  on  the 
waves  of  civilization  struck  the  right  note, 
made  the  story  twice  as  much  worth  read- 
ing. 

“Space  Guards” — B. 

“Hindsight” — B.  Not  bad. 

“The  Long  Whiter” — C.  Drawn  out. 
Same  idea  could  have  been  written  more 
effectively  in  two  thousand  words.  Gallun 
has  done  many,  many  better — and  darn 
few  worse. 

“Space  Double” — C.  Robots;  phony  vil- 
lains with  an  unnatural  brogue,  and  a weak- 
kneed  hero  too  darn  dense  to  see  the  ob- 
vious, combine  to  make  this  a dud.  It  was 
readable,  but  no  more. 

Who  is  Robert  Heinlein?  He  knocked 
me  off  my  feet  last  year  by  writing  the 
third  best  story  of  ’39 — “Life  Line” — and 
now  he  goes  ahead  and  writes  the  best  of 
1940 — “If  This  Goes  On — ” of  course.  A 
really  honest-to-goodness-new  author?  Ever 
since  my  second  favorite  s-f  author  turned 
out  to  be  a pseudonym  for  the  first,  I’ve 
been  on  the  lookout  for  pen  names.  But 
if  Heinlein’s  really  new,  he’s  a find. 

My  list  of  the  best  yarns  of  1939: 

1.  "The  Gray  Lensman.” 

2.  “Cloak  of  Aesir.” 

3.  “Life  Line.”  (Swell  idea,  swell  story.) 

4.  “Cosmic  Engineers.” 

5.  “Shadow  of  the  Veil.”  This  bit  by 
Gallun  raised  scarcely  a ripple.  Yet  I 
liked  it  enough  to  read  it  three  times.— 
Oliver  Saari,  943  Dupont  Avenue  North, 
Minneapolis,  Minnesota. 


Is  that  a reason  or  an  excuse? 

My  dear  Sir: 

In  your  June  issue,  you  wonder  what  is 
rvrong  with  the  army.  Let  me  be  one  of 
the  "million  men  who  will  spring  to  arms” 


QUICKER.  EASIER  WAY 

s ELECTRICITY 

I’lWEEKS  PRACTICAL  WORK 

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SCIEIM  Discussions 

New  angle  on  “ Technological  unemploy- 
ment”— for  cyclotrons! 

Dear  Mr.  Campbell: 

I took  advantage  of  this  visit  to  Boston 
to  get  some  information  and  views  on 
atomic  power.  The  items  in  the  accom- 
panying article  are  a sort  of  secondhand 
reaction;  I talked  to  some  of  the  nuclear 
research  men  in  town.  Their  reaction  to 
the  atomic  power  story  was  about  as  1 
suggest  in  the  article;  “aren’t  these  news- 
pa  pers  a little  slow?  They’ll  be  getting  ex- 
cited about  the  discovery  that  radium  and 
X rays  cure  cancer  next.” 

Also  the  physicists  vs.  physicians  feud 
around  the  cyclotrons  is  one  of  those  got>d- 
natured  mutual  struggles.  Each  side  actu- 
ally recognizes  the  importance  of  the  other 
side’s  work — but  each  side  still  wants  more 


BRASS  TACKS  AND  SCIENCE  DISCUSSIONS 


159 


from  the  cyclotron  than  would  be  possible 
if  they  could  get  it  full  time.  The  physi- 
cists really  get  it  in  the  neck  worse  than 
the  biochemists;  they  not  only  can’t  do 
their  own  work,  but  have  to  run  the  cyclo- 
tron and  do  the  biochemists’  bombardment 
work. 

Finally,  I take  full  blame — or  credit; 
we’ll  know  later! — for  all  predictions.  The 
items  on  shielding  difficulties  are  the  re- 
sult of  talking  to  many  men,  plus  my  own 
ideas,  checked  where  possible  against  data 
tables. 

One  question  that  occurred  to  me  while 
talking  to  the  cyclotroners  and — oh,  call 
that  van  de  Graff  apparatus  a “statotron” 
— statotroners  was  the  delicate  question  of 
technological  unemployment.  What  to  do 
with  cyclotrons  and  statotrons  when  the 
U-235  is  available  in  quantity?  Who  wants 
a cyclotron  that  makes  radioactives  in 
millimicrograms  when  U-235  is  available? 

Answer  seems  to  be  about  the  same  as  in 
chemistry.  Who  wants  test  tubes  when 
commercial  chemical  plants  can  make  sul- 
phuric acid,  et  cetera,  by  the  ton?  An- 
swer: all  .research  must  be  done  in  test 
tulies  first.  It  would  have  been  unhealthy 
to  invent  nitroglycerin  in  ten-ton  lots,  for 
that  matter.  Cyclotrons  and  statotrons 
are  test  tubes  for  nuclear  physics — and  for 
atomic  engineering.  (Wonder  what  school 
will  be  the  first  to  grant  an  A.E.  degree, 
meaning  Atomic  Engineer?) 

Another  thing — the  forgoing  may  be  of 
no  particular  interest,  but  since  several  peo- 
ple seemed  interested  in  that  letter  about 
the  actual  set-up  of  a cyclotron,  they  may 
be  interested  in  a statotron.  You  can  run 
this  in  Science  Discussions  if  you  like,  but 
knowing  you,  I think  you’ll  be  interested 
anyway. 

I’ve  copped  your  abbreviation  ‘'stato- 
tron.” It  seems  to  be  highly  unofficial,  be- 
cause the  men  out  at  M.I.T.  who  were 
working  on  it,  called  it  either  “high  volt- 
age generator”  or  “van  de  Graff  outfit”  In- 
closed find  a sketch  of  what  I will  herewith 
commence  to  discuss. 

As  with  the  cyclotron,  the  statotron’s 
main  gadget  is  impressive,  necessary,  hut  of 
no  particular  interest  to  the  men  working 
on  it.  At  M.I.T. , they  have  the  potential 
balls  on  two  twenty-three-foot  towers  of 
textilite — cotton  fabric  and  a synthetic  resin 
bonded  under  heat  and  pressure — in  a huge 
dome.  The  place  is  startlingly  empty — just 
the  two  great  brownish  lowers  topped  with 
two  immense  metal  balls  touching  and 
slightly  interpenetrating  each  other,  like  one 


of  those  Edgerton  high-speed  photographs 
of  a pair  of  tennis  balls  in  violent  collision. 
There’s  a ladder  mounted  on  a swiveled 
mount  to  reach  the  opening  in  the  nearer 
ball.  That’s  all  there  is  to  see.  Since  the 
dome  is  big  enough  to  hold  the  two  huge 
balls  and  their  towers  and  still  be  better 
than  fifteen  feet  away  at  all  points,  and 
it’s  all  gray  aluminum  lined,  the  echoes 
and  the  emptiness  give  it  a queerly  impres- 
sive effect.  To  the  men  that  run  it,  this 
part  is  of  no  particular  interest — it’s  the 
tail  on  the  dog.  They’ve  got  to  have  it,  of 
course;  that’s  where  the  high-voltage  cur- 
rents are  generated.  But  the  real  business, 
to  them,  is  the  complex  and  beautiful  con- 
trol panel  and  apparatus  downstairs. 

Everything  that  is  necessary  to  the  con- 
trol and  operation  is  underground,  or  in  an 
adjacent  building,  a goodly  number  of  feet 
away,.  They’re  not  afraid  of  the  voltage — 
a few  good  grounds  and  a couple  layers  of 
eyelone  fencing  would  be  perfect  protection 
against  that.  But  two-and-a-haJf-miHion- 
volt  X rays  take  a lot  of  stopping. 

That’s  why  the  apparatus  is  constructed 
as  it  is,  now7.  Originally,  the  two  great 
balls,  and  two  towers,  were  used  as  sepa- 
rate, opposite  generators.  One  was  charged 
2.5  million  volts  minus  and  the  other  2.5 
million  plus,  giving  a total  of  5 million 
volts  available.  But  to  operate  and  con- 
trol the  thing,  to  get  readings  on  its  work, 
someone  had  to  stay  in  one  of  the  two 
spheres.  He  was  perfectly  safe  from  voltage 
there — but  they  were  getting  5-million- 
volt  X rays  which  could  not  be  adequately 
shielded  out.  They  couldn’t  operate  by  re- 
mote control,  because  the  control  wires 
couldn’t  be  insulated  against  2.5  mega  volts 
very  handily.  Hence  the  two  were  com- 
bined into  one  generator,  and  the  control- 
and-reading  end  of  the  voltage  is  at  ground 
potential,  making  remote  control  possible, 
but  reducing  the  voltage  to  2.5  mega  volts. 

In  one  of  the  two  tovrers,  now,  is  the 
charging  apparatus — which  see  below.  The 
other  contains  the  tube.  This  is  a built-up 
series  of  comparatively  short  but  wide 
porcelain  tube  sections  cemented  to  copper 
rings  and  made  vacuum-tight.  This  con- 
struction was  adopted  to  make  the  poten- 
tial spread  itself  evenly  down  the  tube.  If 
there  wjere  a slightly  lower  resistance  on 
one  side  of  the  tube  than  on  the  other,  and 
it  were  all  porcelain,  there  would  be  local 
differences  of  potential  that  would  distort 
the  beam  of  particles  shot  down  it  by  the 
high  voltage.  The  copper  rings  smooth  out 
the  potential. 


160 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


1.  Joined  high-voltage  sphere. 

2.  Tall  insulating  towers  on  which  spheres  rest. 

3.  Electric  motors  driving  charging  belts — one  of  three  shown. 

4.  Main  charging  belts. 

5.  High-voltage  tube  through  which  particles  to  be  investigated  fall. 


6.  Target  bombarded  by  particles — what  all  the  massive  apparatus  is  built  for! 

7.  Local  control  board — used  only  in  preliminary  tuning  up;  dangerous  due  to 

X rays  when  apparatus  is  in  operation. 

8.  Control  board  for  charging  motors  and  belts,  and  for  apparatus  which  sprays 

charge  on  the  belts. 

9.  Small  motor  which 

10.  Drives  this  generator 

11.  By  this  belt  to  supply  power  for  filament  heating,  ion  source,  et  cetera,  in  the 

sphere. 

12.  Main  control  board.  Nearly  all  experiments  are  performed  by  remote  control  from 

here,  where  the  operators  can  be  safe  from  X ray  and  other  bombardment. 


The  tube  is  constantly  pumped  by 
vacuum  apparatus  to  maintain  the  neces- 
sary high  vacuum.  This  is  at  the  lower, 
ground-potential  end,  near  the  target  and 
reading  apparatus.  One  advantage  the 
statotron  enjoys  over  the  cyclotron  is  that 
there  is  nothing  but  X-radiation  to  disturb 
instruments  mounted  right  at  the  target. 
It’s  all  grounded,  and  there  are  no  mag- 
netic fields.  Furthermore,  they  can  use  lots 
of  rooms,  having  to  avoid  only  the  slen- 
der tube  coming  through  the  ceiling  of  the 
underground  room. 

In  a separate  room,  immediately  under 
the  second  of  the  two  sphere  support  towers 
is  the  charging  apparatus.  The  van  de 


Graff  high-voltage  generator  employs  the 
principle  that  made  old-time  mill  hands 
swear  bloody  murder  every  now  and  then — 
that  a running  belt  on  machinery  rapidly 
acquires  an  unhealthy  electric  charge,  so 
that  if  you  get  near  it,  you  get  bit.  The 
statotron  apparatus  helps  this  along — it’s 
what  they’re  after.  Below  the  hollow 
tower,  there  is  a framework  bearing  three 
10-horsepower  electric  motors,  three  long 
steel  spindles  driven  by  them,  all  mounted 
on  a heavy  steel  framework,  and  a smaller 
5-horsepower  electric  motor — purpose  ex- 
plained below. 

The  three  large  motors  drive  the  three 
charger  belts — three  yard-wide  rubber-and- 


fabric  things  of  impressive  size.  They  run 
up  the  tower  and  over  spindles  at  the  upper 
end.  Along  each  spindle  at  the  bottom  are 
hundreds  of  little  sharp  metal  points,  al- 
most but  not  quite  touching  the  belts,  and 
all  pointing  at  them.  These  are  carried 
on  insulated  rods,  connected  to  a fifty- 
thousand-volt  kenotron  rectifier  outfit. 
When  the  apparatus  is  running,  they  spray 
the  belts  with  electrical  charges,  the  belts 
carry  them  up  to  the  sphere,  where  fingers 
wipe  off  the  charges. 

The  fact  that  30-horsepower  was  used 
to  drive  the  belts  rather  startled  me 
at  first.  But  it’s  needed;  those  belts  move. 
They  are  driven  at  the  full  speed  of  the 
electric  motors,  and  they’re  big.  There’s 
windage  loss,  since  they  naturally  stir  up 
considerable  breeze  and  stiffness  to  over- 
come. And,  finally,  it  really  takes  horse- 
power to  carry  electric  charges  up  to  that 
blamed  sphere.  There  are  2.5  megavolts 
repelling  those  charges,  trying  to  force  them 
away.  It  takes  a full  4-horsepower  to 
force  those  charges  up  there  against  the 
repulsion  of  the  voltage  up  topside. 

Finally,  the  small  motor.  The  5-horse- 
power item  is  connected  by  another  long 
belt  to  a dynamo  mounted  in  the  sphere. 
They  need  power  up  there  to  run  a cooling 
refrigerator  for  the  apparatus  mounted  in 
the  tube.  More  is  needed  for  the  actual 
creation  of  the  ions  accelerated  by  the  2.5 
megavolts.  There  are  a number  of  small 
items  needing  power.  And  you  can’t  wire 
in  power  to  a sphere  carrying  2.5  megavolts 
very  handily.  The  answer  is  to  belt  in 
mechanical  power. 

This  entire  apparatus — big  motors, 

framework,  spindles,  small  motor — is  all 
practically  suspended  from  the  three  belts. 
To  keep  them  from  flapping,  a strain  of 
some  fifteen  hundred  pounds  apiece  is 
needed,  so  the  weight  of  the  motors  and 
framework  supplies  it. 

Finally,  this  entire  room  is  air  condi- 
tioned to  about  100°  F.,  and  a chemical  air 
dryer  is  in  action.  Static  leaks  off  if  there’s 
moisture  around,  so  they  keep  it  out. 

The  main  control  is  in  an  adjacent  build- 
ing about  one  hundred  feet  away,  reached 
by  a tunnel.  The  lay-out  is  such  that 
X rays  wishing  to  visit  the  operators  can- 
not get  up  the  tunnel.  It  looks  like  some- 
thing designed  by  a Chinese  with  the  un- 
derstanding that  devils  always  travel  only 
in  straight  lines.  This  type  of  devil  does. 

The  motors,  ion-source,  everything  can 
be  controlled  from  this  room.  The  beam 
coming  down  the  tube  is  located  by  means 
of  four  of  those  glow  tubes  used  in  modern 
radios  to  tell  you  when  you’ve  got  the  set 
tuned  right.  If  the  beam’s  off  center  to 


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GOLD— $35  OUNCE.  Ship  old  gold  teeth,  Crums*  jewelry, 
watches — receive  cash  by  return  mail.  Satisfaction  Guaranteed. 
Free  information.  Paramount  Gold  Refining  Co.,  1500-G  Hennepin, 
Minneapolis,  Minn. 


Photo  Finishing — Developing 


ROLLS  DEVELOPED— 25c  coin.  Two  5x7  Double  Weight  Pro- 
fessional Enlargements,  8 gloss  prints.  Club  Photo  Service, 
Dept.  17,  La  Crosse,  Wis. 


8 ENLARGEMENTS — films  developed  plus  8 enlargements,  25c 
coin — 116  or  smaller.  Enlarge  Photo.  Box  791,  Dept.  SS,  Boston, 
Mass. 


AT  LAST!  ALL  YOUR  SNAPSHOTS  IN  NATURAL  COLORS. 
Roll  developed,  8 Natural  Color  Prints,  only  25c.  Reprints,  3c. 
Amazingly  beautiful.  Natural  Color  Photo,  Janesville,  Wisconsin. 


Correspondence  Courses 


CORRESPONDENCE  COURSES  and  educational  books,  slightly 
used.  Sold.  Rented.  Exchanged.  All  subjects.  Satisfaction  guar- 
anteed. Cash  paid  for  used  courses.  Complete  details  and  bargain 
catalog  Free.  Nelson  Company.  500  Sherman,  Dept.  H-215,  Chicago. 


the  north,  the  tube  marked  N starts  glow- 
ing. and  suitable  corrections  are  made. 

The  apparatus  can  be  operated  also  from 
the  room  at  the  base  of  the  tube.  When 
X rays  aren’t  expected,  it  sometimes  is. 

I was  naturally  curious  as  to  the  rela- 
tive headaches  and  blessings  of  cyclotrons 
and  statotrons.  Each  must  have  something 
on  the  ball;  what  was  it? 

Primary  advantage  for  the  statotron;  it 
can  handle  electrons,  and  the  cyclotron 
can’t.  Reason:  The  statotron  simply  has 
a damned  high  voltage,  and  electrons  will 
fall  across  it  readily — and  with  much 
ichoom.'ph  when  they  land  at  the  other  end. 
The  cyclotron,  on  the  other  hand,  actually 
employs  only  about  fifty  thousand  volts, 
but  contrives  to  use  it  over  and  over,  mul- 
tiplying it  to  many  millions.  However,  to 
do  it,  the  particles  swinging  around  in  the 
magnetic  merry-go-round  must  be  in  step 
with  the  reversals  of  potential  on  the 
D-electrodes — where  the  fifty  thousand 
volts  are  applied  and  re-applied.  With 
something  heavy  like  protons,  deuterons, 
or  alpha  particles,  this  works  out.  But 
electrons  are  so  light  they’ll  jump  across 
and  make  the  swing  before  the  voltage  can 
reverse.  It’s  like  trying  to  play  tennis  witli 
bullets — they  get  there  before  you  can 
move  the  racket. 

All  electron  work  has  to  he  done  with  the 
statotron. 

Again,  the  statotron  can  be  raised  to  a 
potential  of  2.5  megavolts.  That,  then,  is 
the  voltage  applied  to  particles  falling  down 
the  tube.  They  can  read  that  voltage  to 
half  a percent.  In  the  cyclotron,  the  volt- 
age actually  applied  to  a particle  depends 
on  how  many  times  it  lias  been  subjected 
to  that  reversing  fifty  thousand  or  so  volts. 
They  can  read  the  voltage  very  accurately 
— hut  they  can  only  calculate  and  make  an 
educated  guess  as  to  how  many  times  the 
particles  are  bouncing  around  before  they 
finally  come  out.  They  can  read  their  ef- 
fective voltage  on  the  cyclotron  only  to 
about  two  or  three  percent. 

In  much  work  today,  accurate  voltages 
are  important.  Score  for  the  statotron. 

Finally,  the  cyclotron  has  the  odds  in 
two  important  ways — nearly  the  most  im- 
portant. It  has  much  heavier  currents 
than  the  statotron — about  ten  times  the 
power.  It  produces  much  greater  quanti- 
ties of  radioactives.  Second,  it  produces 
much  higher  voltages,  and  the  bigger  you 
make  it,  the  higher  the  voltages  attained. 
Hundred-million-volt  cyclotrons  are  under 
construction;  ten  million  seems  to  lie  the 
practicable  limit  for  the  statotron. 

Each  has  its  use — but  they  differ  — 
Arthur  McCann,  Hotel  Westminster,  Bos- 
ton, Mass. 


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"Speed’s  the  thing  in 
aquaplaning,”  says  Florence 
Holliss,  "but  in  a cigarette  the 
fun  and  the  extras  go  with 
slower  burning...  withCamels.” 


SLOWER  BURNING  MAKES  SUCH  ' 
A DIFFERENCE.  THE  MORE  I SMOKE 
CAMELS,  THE  MORE  I APPRECIATE  . 
THEIR  MILDNESS  AND  COOLNESS . ’ 
CAMELS  GIVE  ME  EXTRA  PLEASURE 
AND  EXTRA  SMOKING , TOO  . 


"THE  FASTER  THE  PACE,  the  more  the 
fun,”  says  Florence  Holliss,  above.  That  goes 
for  all  her  favorite  sports . . . aquaplaning,  ten- 
nis, riding.  But  she  likes  her  smoking  slow.  "I 
always  smoke  Camels,”  Florence  says.  "They 
burn  slower  and  make  smoking  so  much  more 
enjoyable.  Camels  are  extra  mild  and  extra 
cool  — and  they  have  such  a welcome  flavor.” 
Make  Camels  your  cigaretce  and  enjoy  extra 
pleasure  and  extra  smoking  (see  right). 


In  recent  laboratory 
tests,  CAMELS  burned 
25%  slower  than  the 
average  of  the  1 5 other 
of  the  largest-selling 
brands  tested  — slower 
than  any  of  them.  That 
means,  on  the  average, 
a smoking  plus  equal  to 

5 EXTRA 
SMOKES 
PER  PACK! 


A THRILL  in  every  wave— a breath-taking 
bounce  that  says,  bang  on  or  takeyour  duck- 
ing! Florence  Holliss,  above,  likes  the  fast 
pace  in  sports.  But  in  cigarettes,  she  pre- 
fers the  slower-burning  brand . . . Camels. 


EVERY  DAY  more  and  more  smok- 
ers are  discovering  that  the  impor- 
tant "extras”  in  cigarette  pleasure  and 
value  go  with  slow  burning... Camels. 
For  slow  burning  preserves  and  height- 
ens natural  tobacco  flavor  and  fra- 
grance . . . means  freedom  from  the  ex- 
cess heat  and  irritating  qualities  of 
too-fast  burning.  Camels,  with  their 
costlier  tobaccos  and  a slower  way  of 
burning  unequaled  in  recent  tests  (see 
below),  give  you  extra  mildness,  extra 
coolness,  extra  flavor... and  extra  smok- 
ing per  pack. 


Copyright,  1940,  R.  J.  Reynolds  Tobacco  Co.,  Winston-Salem,  N.  C. 


SlOtVER-  1B(/KA//A/G  Cb/UELS  YOU— 


EXTRA  COOLNESS 


EXTRA  FLAVOR 


EXTRA  MILDNESS